


Tumblr Prompts

by Ceris_Malfoy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Season 1, BAMF!Stiles, BDSM, Badwrong, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Breeding, Breeding Kink, Butt Plugs, Claiming, Daddy!Kink, Deepthroating, Dildos, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Edgeplay, F/M, Feels, Fem!Stiles - Freeform, Fingering, Gags, Glory Hole, Gratuitous porn, Hostage!Stiles, I Blame Tumblr, Incest, Infidelity, Introspection, Jeep Sex, Kissing, Knotting, M/M, Marking, Mates, Mating, Mind Control, Mindfuck, Murderous Thoughts, Nipple Clamps, Not 3b Compliant, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Pack Dynamics, Peter being Peter, Porn, Predicament Bondage, Rutting, Size Kink, Sounding, Stilinski Family Feels, Survivor!Stiles, Teenage Pregnancy, Twin!Peter AU, Uncle Peter, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Underage Sex, Unplanned Pregnancy, Unsafe Sex, Watersports, Xenophilia, alive!Hales, all the edits, all the remixes, alpha!peter hale, alpha-form sex, alternate season 2, amnesia!au, answered prompts, bite and run, cuckold, cuddle-buddies, daddy!Peter, dark!stiles, de-aged!Peter, definitely not safe sane or consensual, enforced male chastity, evil!peter, extreme dubious consent, fic idea, fuck and run, garage scene edits, garage scene remix, highschool, insane!Peter, kid!Peter, malia is definitely not, mama-bear!Stiles, non-con, nothing graphic though (yet), original babies, penis gag, platonic life-mates, pragmatic!stiles, prom!au, raised-by-the-Hales!Stiles, rule 63!Stiles, same age!Peter/Stiles, somniphilia, stalker!Peter, stealing mates, stiles is peter's kid, survival thoughts, though Peter will play that angle for all he's worth, underage mating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-31 04:16:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 29,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceris_Malfoy/pseuds/Ceris_Malfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little minifics and prompt answers from Tumblr. </p><p>Updated 9/23: Garage-Scene remix, take 4000</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Twin!Peter AU

**Author's Note:**

> Um. Well then. This is actually my first attempt at writing an all-male sex scene: and what a way to break a writing-cherry. ^^ 
> 
> There's only one thing anyone needs to know about this 'verse: no werewolves.

"Look at him," Ian purrs into Stiles’ ear as he lazily thrusts his fingers into Stiles’ hole.

Stiles whimpers as he looks down at Peter sitting on the bed beside them, breath catching in his throat at the sight. Peter’s blue eyes are fever-bright, gaze sharp and intense as the older man stares at them both, watching as his twin gradually takes Stiles apart inch by inch. Ian adds another finger, scissoring, and Peter’s cock twitches, catching Stiles’ undivided attention.

It’s strange, but before now, Stiles had only a passing desire to know what a cock would feel like in his mouth. But right now, with Ian’s fingers firmly-but-slowly stretching him open and Peter’s gaze hungry upon him, all Stiles can think of is what it would feel like to take Peter into his mouth, run his tongue up and down that veined shaft, suckle the man’s precome off the head. He wonders if he has a gag-reflex, if he could take Peter deep, if Peter would enjoy seeing Stiles’ mouth stretched wide around his cock.

Peter fists his hands into the sheets, entire body shaking with his need to touch, and Stiles _wants_. He wants Peter to touch, to _take_. Peter isn’t allowed to touch him just yet, though. Ian had been perfectly clear about his rules. Ian got to have Stiles first, got to be the first to touch Stiles, kiss him, _fuck_ him. And Stiles had agreed to those rules, scared of both his desire for _both_ of the Hale twins, and by how much he knew Peter truly wanted him. Stiles is _safe_ with Ian, in a way, because Ian just wants to fuck him through the mattress or the nearest convenient wall. Peter though…. Stiles has the feeling that Peter wants more than that. Peter, he thinks, wants to keep him, wants him for more than just sex, wants more than Stiles can possibly give right now considering the fact that he is barely even seventeen.

"Look at what you do to him," Ian continues. "Look at him, Stiles. He can’t even touch _himself_ , he wants you so bad.” Ian pulls his fingers out of Stiles’ ass, coats his cock with more lube before pushing slowly in.

Ian thrusts into him, soft, shallow movements that does absolutely nothing except make Stiles hiss in frustration. Ian feels so good inside him, better than he’d ever imagined, but he wants, no _needs_ , more. God, does he need more. He pushes back sharply, snarling when Ian moves backwards as well, laughing at him. If he had ever doubted that Ian and Peter were two completely different people, regardless of how they looked, Stiles now has ample proof - Ian is twice as much an asshole as Peter is.

Stiles looks over at Peter, sees the way he is watching them, sees the way he is waiting for Ian to finish so that he can have his turn, and knows instinctively that _Peter_ wouldn’t deny him. Peter would use him exactly as hard as he needs, no more, no less, because he _knows_ Stiles. Peter could read Stiles’ wants and needs in a way that Ian - for all his considerable practiced ease at playing Peter when they switched roles - can never replicate.

Stiles decides this needs a reward. He reaches out in clear violation of Ian’s rules, sliding his hands up Peter’s strong thighs to the leaking prize between them. He hums absently as Peter groans, shifting closer, hips snapping up minutely into Stiles’ grip. They both snicker a little when Ian growls, hands clamping possessively onto Stiles’ hip. Stiles meets Peter’s gaze and licks his lips, moving a fist in a lazy motion to match Ian’s equally lazy thrusts. Stiles pulls forward as much as he is able, and Peter obligingly shifts closer still. Close enough that all Stiles has to do is bend his head slightly to the side and lick the tip of Peter’s cock. Peter moans, head tipped back, eyelids fluttering closed. Stiles pauses a little to consider the taste of Peter’s precome, unsure about whether he likes it. He doesn’t, not really, but it certainly isn’t the _worst_ -tasting thing he’s ever put in his mouth. It is tolerable, he decides, and goes back for more.

Ian growls again, snapping his hips forward aggressively, harsh and punishing, and that is exactly what Stiles had wanted. He moans approvingly and moves his hips to meet Ian thrust for angry thrust, hands clutching Peter’s thighs, fingers digging deep into Peter’s skin as he finally starts to really enjoy the ride. He mouths at Peter’s cock, unable to really concentrate on doing anything more because all his attention is on the older man behind him fucking him fast and furious. The friction and the heat and the slick slide of Ian’s cock inside of him is too much, and he wants to scream, wants to cry out, but all that escapes his mouth is a shaky whine as he comes, shuddering and shaking.

Ian is still growling even as he plows into him, fucking Stiles through his orgasm, fingers tightening on his hips as he chases his own. Stiles will have bruises later, but right now he could care less. It only takes a few more hard thrusts before Ian is rutting into him shallowly as he spills inside Stiles. Peter is watching him take everything Ian can give him, watching him fucking _love_ it, and he can tell by the look in Peter’s eyes and the growing wolf-like grin on Peter’s face that if he thinks Ian is any good, Peter is going to fucking _wreck_ him.

Stiles can’t fucking wait.


	2. De-Aged!Peter AU (platonic life-mates Peter/Stiles)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [bxdcubes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm) asked: Could I maybe ask for de-aged Peter or Stiles then? Would that work with you? I've been craving it for ages now.

> No one knows where it starts or even how it happens. Things are kind of a large mess for a long while, what with the Nemeton becoming active and the awakening of Stiles’ spark (and the entire possession!fiasco _that_ invited). But somewhere between Scott, Allison, and Stiles willingly sacrificing themselves and Stiles getting a panicked call from Scott shortly before Senior Prom, Stiles and Peter get close.
> 
> It bothers their small group, to be honest, to see the 30+ werewolf and the 17-year-old teenager hanging around, snarking happily at each other and starting mock fights whenever they get bored. They cook together and watch movies together, work on Stiles’ magic together, strategize together. They liked to cuddle together, Stiles curled tight into Peter’s side, eyes closed and breathing even, Peter reading quietly, sometimes reading out loud, voice velvet-soft and calming. There’s even been numerous times someone’s walked in on the two of them sleeping, curled up around each other like kids with teddy bears or security blankets. It honestly surprises everyone that the two _aren’t_ fucking as well, but no one mentions it, not after the last time someone did resulted in Stiles giving his own father the verbal lashing of his life and the rather public reveal that while Peter might flirt and make innuendos with the best (and worst) of them, but he really doesn’t _do_ physical relationships; and while Stiles likes to touch and _be_ touched, he doesn’t necessarily feel the need to turn one of the few things he feels _safe_ about into something explicitly sexual.
> 
> John still can’t look his son in the eyes.
> 
> So when Stiles gets the call from Scott, he only has to hear the words, “It’s Peter.” He grabs his jacket, his keys, and his ‘emergency’ bag, and heads on out the door, sharply grilling his best friend over “What happened, what’s wrong, _goddamnit_ Scott, breathe and _talk_ to me.”
> 
> _Witches_. It had to be witches, didn’t it?
> 
> Stiles isn’t magic, doesn’t possess a single drop of power of his own. What he does, what he’s capable of doing, operates so far outside the few rules that magic follows that he understands, to a point, why neither Deaton or Morell offered to teach him how to do more than toss a circle of dust on the floor. He operates entirely out of belief and sheer stubborn will, so when he faces the chubby, wolfed-out three-year-old with very familiar blue eyes, he knows he’s in deep shit.
> 
> "Where’s the witch?" he asks, watching child!Peter watch him. Child!Peter is stressed, alone without anyone around him he recognizes as pack, surrounded by strange wolves that clearly have no love for him, the closest of which is an alpha he doesn’t recognize who won’t stop staring at him. He’s only a small tantrum away from going completely full-shift, and Stiles instinctively knows that if that happens, there will be no reclaiming Peter. Not without the miraculous return of someone he would recognize as his pack.
> 
> Scott rubs the back of his neck, sighing. “Gone.” He doesn’t take his eyes off of Peter, grumbling warningly when the child tries to edge away.
> 
> "You’re going to need to find her, dude," Stiles says, crouching down, holding his hands out, fingers splayed. Peter obligingly looks back over at him. Stiles keeps his eyes tilted submissively away, baring his neck ever so slightly. _See?_ He tries to say to Peter. _I’m not a threat._
> 
> "Can’t you fix him?"
> 
> Stiles rolls his eyes. “Not a magician, dude. I couldn’t float a pencil, let alone return Peter to his natural state.” He waggles his fingers at the three-year-old. “Hey, little man,” he says, softening his voice. “Can you come over here, please?” When Peter just _looks_ at him, so full of sass and ‘bitch, _please_ ' even at this young of an age, he smiles a little sheepishly. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Scott, can you back up by, like, a lot? You're making the baby beta nervous.”
> 
> Scott doesn’t argue, one of the many things Stiles loves about his best bud. He just backs away from Stiles and Peter both, far enough that Peter starts to lose his ‘I’mm flee now, kthxby’ look, but lingering close enough that Stiles can still talk to him. “You think Deaton might help?”
> 
> "I wouldn’t trust Deaton to boil Peter a cup of tea, Scott." Deaton isn’t the only one Stiles watches closely in regards to Peter’s continued well-being. At least with Chris Argent, everyone - even Allison - understands that paranoia. No one understands the mistrust Stiles has for Deaton. Stiles doesn’t understand it, either. He just knows instinctively that there is something _wrong_ with the vet, and he’s learned to trust his instincts.
> 
> Stiles waggles his fingers again, smiling gently. “Come on, Peter” he murmurs. “I need you to come over here, little man.”
> 
> "I’m not little," the boy suddenly says, scowling at Stiles as the shift fades away, leaving only a tiny boy with an all-too-familiar pout. "I’mma big boy now. Mama _said_.”
> 
> "Well," Stiles grins, amused more than he probably should be. He is going to have so many things to mock Peter over with when this is resolved. So many things. "If your mother said." He waggles his eyebrows as well as his fingers. "You wanna come over here so I can make sure the witch didn’t hurt you?"
> 
> Peter scowls further, huffing. “You’re _laughing_ at me.”
> 
> "Yup," he admits freely. He knows better than to lie to Peter - no matter how well he is capable of lying to any other werewolf, Peter has always been capable of calling him out on his lies. Stiles isn’t sure if that ability is due to age and experience or some sort of Stiles-specific gift, but he thinks it might be a bad idea to try and get the child version of Peter to trust him by lying.
> 
> It takes a bit more coaxing, but eventually Stiles has his arms full of sleepy mini-werewolf.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  

**And, also, a little bonus piece:**

> "You smell nice," Peter mumbles, burrowing his tiny head further into Stiles’ neck, voice sleepy-soft and quiet.
> 
> "Oh yeah?" Stiles says just as quietly as he makes his way up the stairs to his room. His bed had been more than capable of holding both Peter and Stiles as full-grown adults on the rare occasion they were here instead of at Peter’s apartment. It will be more than large enough to hold him and a tiny three-year-old. "And what do I smell like to you?"
> 
> Peter yawns again, nuzzling deeper into his throat and sighing. For a long moment, Stiles thinks the boy finally dropped off to sleep, long day catching up to him. He runs a hand through Peter’s soft, fine hair, fingernails gently scraping the boy’s scalp the way older!Peter had enjoyed, delighting in the sleepy rumble that escapes the little were’s throat. He get’s them settled into the bed, curling protectively around the tiny form, body relaxing as he breathes in the familiar scent of _PeterandStiles_ that permeates in the air around them, anchoring him.
> 
> "Mine," Peter finally mumbles. "You smell like mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always taking Peter/Stiles prompts on my [Tumblr](http://labtrinthine.tumblr.com/), though I should warn you, I'm a pretty slow writer. XD Feel free to hit me up!


	3. Fem!Stiles AU: Peter helps raise his mate (featuring alive!Hales)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked for: Oh my god, you're taking prompts. I'm so not missing out on this opportunity!!! Can I request an AU prompt with fem!Stiles where both her parents die at a young age and ends up being adopted and raised by the Hale family (and given special attention by her new uncle Peter)? Basically, I just want a creepily fluffy fic where Peter basically grooms and raises fem!Stiles (though I'm fine with boy!Stiles too) to be his mate.

It takes two weeks before anyone catches on to what Stiles is to Peter, but once they do, there’s no sticking that cat back in the bag. It’s written in the way he watches the little 9-year-old, eyes intent and hungry, burning gold beneath the force of his instincts. It’s in the way he lingers, hovering around her, never quite daring to touch, but clearly wanting to. It’s in the way he speaks to her, gentle and teasing, coaxing her slowly out of the shell she buried herself in ever since she’d come home from school to a dead father not two weeks after her mother died. It’s in his scent, the way it floods the room with want and possessiveness whenever she looks up at him and smiles.

Talia spends a week making plans to send Stiles away, scraping them every time she does because she knows her lore, okay? She knows that it doesn’t matter how far she sends Stiles away, Peter will follow her, will find her, will rend everyone and everything that dares to get in his way of keeping her. Unbound mates are instinct driven, borderline psychotic, and Peter has _never_ been what one could safely consider sane. Talia is many things, but blind to Peter’s faults has never been one of them. She knows her baby brother better than her own pups, so she knows that sending Stiles away will not help, will actually only turn out all the worse. Besides, in the time it takes Talia to realize that sending Stiles away would only result in more trouble than it would solve, Stiles wriggles her way firmly into the core of the pack, becoming so intrinsically bound to them that Talia could no more send her away that she could one of her own pups.

Stiles is, instinctively and adaptively, so much like them in behaviors and mannerisms that every last one of them sometimes have to forcefully remind themselves that she is human, not wolf. It only makes it harder for Talia to keep Peter on a metaphorical leash, because Stiles latches on to Peter more than she does any other person in their pack. She’s friendly enough with Cora, clearly uncomfortable around Laura for reasons no one seems willing to talk about, and treats Derek like a giant teddy-bear. (Derek will be the first to admit the tiny human has him wrapped around her fingers.)

But Uncle Peter is her undisputed favorite. It is undeniable and unquestionable, an immoveable fact of her life. She’s old enough to know that the way he looks at her, the lingering ways he touches her, aren’t right. She’s a cop’s kid, and there is no cop’s kid on this earth - let alone a cop’s only daughter - who passes the age of three without learning about Stranger Danger and the Bad Touch. It should bother her, the way her new Uncle creeps on her, and she knows this. But it doesn’t. She likes the attention he pays her, likes the way he cuddles her to him like he doesn’t want to let go, likes the way he talks to her, bold and honest like she’s an equal. She likes the little presents he buys her, and the food he prepares especially for her, the time he takes out of his day to teach her things.

It is Uncle Peter who reveals the existence of werewolves to her. It is Uncle Peter who teaches her their traditions and their practices, their history, mythology, and beliefs. It is Uncle Peter who teaches her about the hierarchies and subtle power plays between packs, and the responsibilities packs like theirs have towards their towns. It is Stiles, clever little thing that she is, who takes his teachings one step further, sneaking into the Hale library and reading everything she can get her hands on, learning about things that even Peter knows she’s much too young for.

Because despite his aching want, Peter isn’t a monster, not really, not like _that_. He wants what she represents, what she has the potential to _become_ , but he has no desire to fuck a child. Not even when that child is his mate. But even so, when Stiles, 11 now and so precocious, walks up to him one for her usual morning hug and proceeds to clumsily scent-mark him, Peter is hard-pressed not to toss her down to the floor and claim her right then and there in front of everyone. Peter’s been so careful to leave his own scent on her in the same exact ways that he would leave his scent on any one of his family, because the last thing he needs is Talia freaking out and going protective alpha on his ass. But what Stiles does that morning, rubbing her face into his neck, nuzzling and kissing and nibbling, is too close for mere familial scenting, too intimate to be anything other than exactly what Stiles intends it to be.

It is a promise, a claiming, a staking of ownership. She does it first thing in the morning, because everyone is just now shuffling off into the kitchen in search of food, and Stiles wants everyone and anyone to understand that she’s okay with this, that she wants Peter as much as Peter wants her. It’s not proper, and it’s not right, but she knows what she’s getting into and she wants it.

Talia is a little angry, she’s not going to lie, because she’s gotten attached to Stiles, feels like the young girl is one of her own, and the mere idea of anyone putting their greedy paws on the 11-year-old like that has the alpha in her ready to rip and tear and kill. She has a long, long discussion with the little girl, explaining that while they all understand the mating will happen - and it will, there is no getting out of it - Stiles will need to wait until at least 16 before she is claimed. Talia also lets her know that if at any point after the claiming she wants the Bite, Stiles would be welcome to it. The discussion Talia has with her youngest brother is much shorter, consisting mainly of what she will do to him if she finds out he’s claimed the girl before she turns 16.

And things change after that. Stiles is pulled from the public school system, registered instead for home schooling. Talia brings in Deaton to teach her how to protect herself from werewolves should the need ever arise, and enough magic to be considered the pack’s new emissary should she decline the Bite.. She’s taught what her responsibilities will be as the mate of Talia’s head beta, how to be both submissive and assertive without pissing off visiting packs. She’s taught so many things, but the lessons her Uncle teaches her are the ones she enjoys best. Uncle Peter teaches her how to read in Russian and Gaelic, how to lie to other werewolves, how to hide her scent.

And Peter is doing good, so very good. He allows her to scent him thoroughly in the morning, but doesn’t reciprocate, because he likes his balls exactly where they are, is going to need them later to give his darling mate pups. But Stiles is both bold and curious, and when Peter continuously doesn’t get the hint that she wants more from him, she starts to experiment on her own. She knows by now that there is no such thing as privacy in a house full of werewolves, has long embraced her hidden core of absolute shamelessness.

As long as she gets what she wants, well. She starts off my furtively learning how to touch herself, exploring her body in both her bedroom and the in-suite bathroom, learning what she likes and what she doesn’t. She makes no effort to hide her scent or smother the sounds she makes. And she knows its working, can see the looks of pity the others keep throwing Peter, can see the way Peter starts to creep on her harder, practically living as her shadow, gaze intense and uncharacteristically silent. He’s on his last tether, she knows it, rejoices in it, and the only thing holding him back is precisely the only thing stopping her from crawling naked into his bed at night.

And everyone _knows_ , okay? And even Talia knows that Peter’s control is only so good, there’s got to be some give before she ends up with a pregnant 13-year-old running around. So she compromises with Peter, tells him he can touch and taste all he wants, but he can not claim her in full until she’s 16. And so Stiles starts to learn new things.

By the time she’s fourteen, she knows what it’s like to have her Uncle’s head between her thighs, mouth latched firmly onto her aching sex, tongue and teeth drawing out orgasm after orgasm out of her trembling body. She knows what it’s like to feel his fingers inside of her, twisting and petting. She knows what it’s like to have her developing breasts in his hands and on his tongue. She knows what it sounds like when he jerks himself off as he eats her out, growling and groaning into her sex, all the more hungry for the taste of her the closer he gets to release. She knows what it feels like to have his large, strong hands hold her down and make her take it.

When she’s fifteen, she’s finally allowed to see him naked, to explore his body the way he’s explored her own, and she gains a fascination with his cock. She loves it, _adores_ it, wants it in her or on her always. He won’t fuck her, won’t claim her, not yet, Talia’s orders the only barrier between them both taking that final step, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t other things they can do. She likes to suckle at him, likes the feel of him, hot and heavy in her mouth, soft or hard, it doesn’t matter. She gains a bit of an exhibition kink, because she doesn’t care who sees her: when she wants him, she has no qualms dropping to her knees and _taking_.

The day she turns sixteen, Peter whisks her off to a hotel, where they spend the next three days lounging around naked, having as much sex as her fragile human body could stand, and cuddling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always taking Peter/Stiles prompts on my [Tumblr](http://labtrinthine.tumblr.com/), though I should warn you, I'm a pretty slow writer. XD Feel free to hit me up!


	4. Fem!Stiles AU: unplanned pregnancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [itumbledriedforyou](itumbledriedforyou.tumblr.com) asked for: Ugh, I'm having trouble picking just one prompt, so have some choices! Mix and match as you desire. Daddy kink, feminization (without humiliation), arranged marriage, or unplanned pregnancy. It's all pretty vague, but I thought you might prefer the wiggle room. I am up for whatever you do with the above prompts. Seriously, I fangirl you so hard. I will likely have palpitations and burst into flames of joy if you write a thing for me.
> 
> This is the Unplanned Pregnancy bit. (The others are coming!)

> Stiles stares at the happy little blue plus sign on the pregnancy stick she just peed on, and knows that this is it. This is where everything will change. This is where everything will _have_ to change, because she is her mother’s daughter above all other things, and that means there is nothing she is unwilling to do for the continued happiness and safety of those she loves. She has been confining her options to those mostly within the limits of human law, because the _last_ thing her father needs right now is for her to be arrested for any number of criminal offenses she knows she is perfectly capable of committing.
> 
> But she doesn’t have that option anymore. She _can’t_ have that option anymore, because if she lets things continue on their current path, she will risk more than just the death of her friends – she will be risking the death of her unborn child, and that is so far from acceptable that she can’t even contemplate it. Stiles is actually a little _afraid_ about how strongly she feels for the child she didn’t even know existed for sure not ten minutes ago, but Stiles is both very self-aware and _very_ pragmatic.
> 
> She takes a few moments to come to terms with the fact that she is pregnant with Peter Hale’s child, that she apparently is already attached to the life growing within her, and that if she wants to keep said child, at least one of the threats attacking their little make-shift pack has got to go.
> 
> She looks at herself in the bathroom mirror, meets her eyes in the mirror, studies her pale, drawn features and the small scar that bisects the line of her bottom lip ever-so-slightly in the center – the only reminder of what Gerard had done to her – and nods. Without looking back down at the stick, she tosses it into the trashcan and heads back into her room and finishes packing her bag for school on Monday.
> 
> Calmly she grabs her cell-phone, and dials a number she still can’t believe sometimes that she has – _and_ is allowed to use.
> 
> “Hey, Lydia?” she asks once the phone picks up on the other end. “I need a _really_ big favor.”
> 
>  ~~~~~~
> 
> It’s not that hard, all things considered. Stiles is apparently some kind of supernatural-witch-spark-thingy, where the strength of her _belief_ is all that matters, so it almost feels like child’s play to toss a small handful of mountain ash in the air, and _believe_. She’s thought about what she wants to do to the Alphas, how she can kill them slowly and make them all pay for the trauma and heartbreak they’ve brought into her pack. She can be ruthless when she needs to be, and she’s _always_ been cruel.
> 
> No one ever believes that of her – sure she’s an annoying, sarcastic little shit, and a bit of a bitch, oh yes, mustn’t forget that – but cruel? Peter’s the only one who really knows just how cruel she can be, because who else but the cruelest of the cruel would _deliberately_ set out to set a former burn-victim who lost most of his entire family in the fire that laid his super-healing werewolf ass flat for six years _on fire?_ Stiles, that’s who. And she and Peter have never talked about that night, probably never _will_ talk about that night, but just as she has a healthy respect for his particular brand of dangerous crazy, now too does Peter have a healthy respect for the lengths she is willing to go.
> 
> So she traps the wolves in their rented house with a mountain ash circle she should never have been able to set with the small handful she had left from that night at the rave, and – just to be really thorough, because she’s Stiles and she does her fucking research – has Lydia reinforce it with a circle of ground mistletoe, to prevent any supernatural-witch-spark-thingies they may have as an ally from breaking the mountain ash circle. Stiles has spent quite a few moments thinking about setting fire to the house with them in it, but doesn’t like the thought of being like Kate in any aspect, especially this one.
> 
> She may be ruthless and more than pragmatic, but at the end of the day, she still has to be able to look herself in the eyes and know she did what was necessary. Setting a fire wouldn’t be necessary, wouldn’t even really be vengeance, or justice, because the alphas never set fire to _her_ pack and tried to burn them out. That punishment will be served to the Argents if they _ever_ think about raising a hand to her pack again, because she is _done_ with all this supernatural bullshit. She has a child to think about now, and she will _not_ be raising a child in the middle of a war-zone. If that means she has to kill a few people in ways strong enough to get the message across, so be it.
> 
> Instead, she does to the alphas exactly what they did to Erica and Boyd and Cora, but on a limited scale, because she doesn’t have a vault of hexalite and moonstone to shove them in. She walks around the circle, Lydia following, the two of them setting in an even more deadly circle of wolfsbane and cold iron – again, a deterrent for someone like her. By the time she’s done, Deucalion is standing on the porch, Kali beside him. His eyes are glowing red, like two miniature blood moons, and somehow she knows he can see her, even though he is supposed to be blind.
> 
> “What are you doing, child?” he asks, tone bland and unconcerned. He isn’t worried about her and what she may or not be capable of, because to him she is not a threat. She is human, and weak. _Breakable_.
> 
> She smiles at him, and she knows it is a perfect reflection of Peter when Lydia takes one look at her and then looks away, clutching her arms to her body like she is suddenly cold.
> 
> “I’m going back to the car,” Lydia says, unable to look at Stiles.
> 
> Stiles waits until Lydia is out of earshot before she says anything. “I’m returning the hospitality you showed the members of my pack, Alpha of Alphas,” she returns just as blandly, still smiling.
> 
> “Oh?”
> 
> “A quadruple ring of mistletoe, mountain ash, wolfsbane, and cold iron. I can’t trap you in a box made of hexalite and moonstone and cut you off from the moon, but I _can_ trap you in that house and watch as you slowly starve to death.” Her smile widens, baring too many teeth to really be a smile. “I wonder, Alpha of Alphas, how far you’ll sink in your desperation for sustenance. I can’t _wait_ to find out.”
> 
> Deucalion doesn’t say anything, just stares at her.
> 
> “You can’t do that,” Kali says.
> 
> “Were I anyone else, were I any less desperate, any less _angry_ , you would be right. But unfortunately for you and yours, I am not anyone else. I am the potential mate of an undead sociopathic former-alpha, and I am pregnant with his child.” She meets Kali’s gaze for a brief second, and then settles her gaze firmly back on Deucalion. “I will not allow any harm to come to the remainder of _my_ pack. I will not allow any harm to come to _my_ child.  Your death, Alpha of Alphas, your _slow and lingering_ death will serve as warning and promise both: I will not back down, I will not give up. Beacon Hills is _mine_.”
> 
> With that, she waves mockingly at them both, turns, and leaves.
> 
> She smiles all the way back to the car.
> 
>  ~~~~~~~
> 
> Of course, she should have known better than to think she could hide this even for a moment.
> 
> Her dad may not exactly be around all the time, one of the many reasons she had been able to see Peter for as long as she has, but he’s not stupid and he’s not blind, and it’s not like she had been exactly careful. He had gone into the bathroom, and there had been a positive pregnancy test sitting in plain view on the top of the garbage bin.
> 
> Definitely not her finest moment, but in her own defense, she’d been a little more concerned with other matters. That doesn’t really help her right now, because its not like she can tell her father that the only reason she hadn’t tried to hide the test better was because she had decided to play dirty in this little pseudo-war her pack had gotten involved in.
> 
> "Who’s is it?" he asks her, voice too even, face too calm.
> 
> She looks down at her hands and bites her lips, because how does she explain to her father that she’s been sleeping with a thirty-something year old man on the regular for the past two months or so? Her father is the Sheriff; her imagination is not good enough to imagine any sort of circumstances in which he’d be okay with that.
> 
> "It was an accident," she says instead. "We were being safe, using a condom and everything."
> 
> Her father closes his eyes and breathes deeply for a long moment. “You could have told me you were sexually active; I would have arranged for you to be on birth control as well. You know very well that condoms alone are not 100% effective. Now. Who’s is it?”
> 
> "It wasn’t something serious, dad," she says. It’s a total lie: Peter is not one to enter into anything half-hearted. The only reason they aren’t fully mated right now is because they had both wanted to avoid this exact scenario from happening; Peter isn’t exactly sane, but even he knows she’s too young to even think about being pregnant, and their relationship is still illegal on top of it all. That being said, right now she wishes it was the truth, because despite everything, she _still_ can’t lie effectively to her father.
> 
> "Stiles, answer the question."
> 
> "Peter Hale." It is a whisper, but she might as well have shouted it at the top of her lungs for all the good it does her.
> 
> Her dad’s face goes completely blank. “Does he know?” he finally asks, voice tight.
> 
> "No. I just found out this morning."
> 
> Stiles watches her father as he turns his gaze to the ceiling. She lets him think for a long moment, wondering when he was going to crack, when he would start yelling - at her or about Peter, it made no difference.
> 
> "You’re getting rid of it," her father suddenly says.
> 
> "What?"
> 
> "We’ll get it done discreetly. I’ll call you out with the flu or something, we’ll get the procedure done, and no one has to know."
> 
> "No."
> 
> He finally looks at her, face hard and determined. “Stiles.”
> 
> “ _No_.” She says it again, lets her voice ring with all the threat she can pack into the single word. She won’t give up this child, she won’t abort it, she won’t. She _can’t_.
> 
> Her father pinches the bridge of his nose, looking pained. “I can’t - you’re only _seventeen_ for Christ’s sake! What do you know about having a life completely dependent on you for everything? You can barely take care of yourself!”
> 
> "I took care of _you_ ,” she snaps out. She immediately slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. She hadn’t meant to say that, hadn’t meant to bring her father’s failure up at all. She loves him too much to throw that in his face. She does.
> 
> "What?"
> 
> In for a penny, in for a pound. She takes a deep breath. “You spent two years crawling into the bottom of whatever bottle you could get your hands on after mom died. Who do you think did all the cooking and the cleaning and the laundry? Who do you think made sure the bills were paid on time when you were too drunk to see straight? Who do you think left a glass of water and a couple aspirin next to whichever flat surface you happened to pass out on so that you could go to work without feeling too trashed? Surprise,” she says, waggling her fingers, unable to keep out the sarcasm that was her only defense for all these _feelings_. “It wasn’t the tooth fairy.”
> 
> And her father deflates, sagging in on himself, looking like he’d aged ten years in less than a moment. She can’t help herself, immediately grabs him in a tight hug, sighing in relief when he grips her back.
> 
> "I know I’m young, daddy," she says softly, tucking her head into his chest. "I know you’re worried. But I was only nine when things went to shit after mom died, and I managed to keep us afloat until you remembered you had a kid dependent on you. And I’ll speak to Peter; even if he doesn’t want kids, he won’t let me flounder around on my own. It’ll be alright, I promise."
> 
> Her father tightens his grip on her, rocking slightly. She lets him, knows he needs the comfort just as much as she does.
> 
> "I want to meet him," he says into her hair.
> 
> "Alright," she agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always taking Peter/Stiles prompts on my [Tumblr](http://labtrinthine.tumblr.com/), though I should warn you, I'm a pretty slow writer. XD Feel free to hit me up!


	5. Hostage AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Hostage AU, Steter.

> Stiles woke all at once, heart quickening in his chest, the dark of his bedroom doing nothing to ease his panic. At his side, Peter Hale, the Alpha who’d claimed him, was still sleeping peacefully. Stiles eyes his captor, looking at all that vulnerable flesh on silent offer to him, and thinks about killing Peter. Were Peter anything other than what he is, Stiles might have chanced it. But the last thing he needs is to provoke Peter’s rage.
> 
> Stiles slides quietly off his bed, wincing at the frigid chill of the ceramic tile. It is a good choice, aesthetically and practically, because blood is so much easier to clean up, but honestly Stiles wouldn’t mind having carpet even if it did mean he’d be on his hands and knees scrubbing bloodstains out of it.
> 
> He feels ill, stomach roiling, protesting both the too-rich food Peter had cooked at the bi-weekly dinners Peter has with Stiles’ dad to and the … _extraneous_ liquids he’d been forced to swallow immediately afterwards. His _reward_. Struggling desperately not to throw up, he fumbles his way to the en-suite bathroom, feeling altogether dirty and used and unbearably, uncomfortably alone. He just wants to crawl into a little hole and curl up and die. He wants his mother, wants his father, wants to be enclosed in the safety of their arms and cry for everything he’s lost and will continue to lose.
> 
> He stands on the threshold between bedroom and bathroom, trembling, wanting to shower, wanting to be _clean_ , but unable to cross. He stands there, staring unseeing at the window, starting to cry silently even as he watches the daylight begin to filter into the room. Behind him he can hear Peter finally awakening. He keeps his back to him. Stiles does not want to see him, to know his face and see written in his eyes the combined frenzy of _lust/hate/need_ that the alpha feels towards him.
> 
> It is not that Peter is inherently a monster - far from it, in fact. If it weren’t for his situation, Stiles could easily see himself and Peter settled and somewhat happy. They compliment each other, both smart, sassy, witty assholes who were loyal to precious few and would move worlds for those they considered theirs. But Peter is what he is, and Stiles’ father is who _he_ is, and between the two of them, Stiles lives in a constant world of panic attacks, unresolved anger, and nausea. Things might have been different, had his father never put 2 and 2 together and figured out Peter Hale was a werewolf out for revenge. But the Sheriff did, and went and confronted the falsely-catatonic man, raising just enough of a ruckus that the Argents caught wind of it, leaving Peter exposed and desperate and backed in a corner.
> 
> But Peter was a smart man, a clever man, and he was capable of adapting. He’d grabbed Stiles, stood in front of his father and laid out his terms, all the while keeping one clawed hand firmly enclosed around Stiles’ neck. The Sheriff had no choice, unwilling to risk the life of his only son. He’d gathered the evidence, contacted the FBI, and had Kate Argent arrested for murder, arson, statutory rape, and god only knew what else. The resulting scandal had the rest of the Argents crawling back into whatever dark corner they’d crawled out of, but Peter wasn’t satisfied.
> 
> The Sheriff still posed a risk, as did his wayward beta and his enraged nephew. His nephew was easy to subdue, desperate for a family and pack, even one that murdered his sister and alpha. The other two however, needed incentive. Which is where Stiles came in.
> 
> Stiles lives with Peter now. Eats with him, sleeps with him, is home-schooled by him. Peter isn’t sane, isn’t _safe_ , and the make-shift pack doesn’t help. What may have once turned out to be a consensual relationship - if severely fucked over sideways - is now something so twisted that Stiles is incapable of anything more than fear and hate, which in turn sets off Peter’s need to _claim_ even harder. It is a violent circle of reactions, one neither of them are capable of avoiding or stopping.
> 
> Stiles doesn’t know what his father told the rest of Beacon Hills. He doesn’t much care.

**And a bonus section:**

> "Come to me, my own," Peter Hale croons, moon-drunk and sated blood-lust, one clawed hand held before his naked form.
> 
> Stiles can not speak; his voice seems to be locked within his throat, which feels swollen and thick. His skin shivers in combined lust, fear, and dread. Peter is unworldly under the full moon, alpha instincts at the fore, too beautiful to be real and voice pitched lower than normal as the wolf in him growls. He stands naked and sure, unashamed by either his naked flesh or the blood that covers it. And were Stiles any other, he would be fooled by the wolf, would walk willingly into that trap, and possibly even rejoice even as he was ripped to shreds.
> 
> But Stiles _knows_. Oh, did he know. He also knows he has no choice left. To run is to invite the hunt, and he is not so fast a prey as to avoid an alpha werewolf. The remains of the Argents lie in brutal pieces around them, his father lost somewhere in the carnage, and Stiles has no one left that he could run to even if he should prove clever enough to get away. So, eyes downcast, shoulders drooping slightly, he places his hand in Peter’s, allowing the alpha to tug him gently further into the woods.
> 
> Peter laughs, triumphant and mad. And Stiles waits, hating, fearing, wanting.


	6. Fem!Stiles AU: Kidnapping, Stockholm Syndrome, and Survivalist!Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> I don't know if you're still taking prompts, so feel free to ignore this! I've noticed there aren't many abduction & stockholm syndrome PeterStiles fics, which is one of my favorite scenarios when it comes to bad-wrong pairings. So I was wondering if I could ask for something like that? I'm pretty much open to anything else (boy!Stiles, girl!Stiles, creepy fluff, angst, smut, doesn't matter to me), so go crazy (if you're still accepting prompts that is)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may, or may not, be planning on turning this into a Hannibal crossover. I'm not quite sure. But if I do, Peter WILL eventually get what's coming to him.

> “You must be Stiles,” Peter Hales says to her, leaning casually against the wall, looking at her with something like disinterested attentiveness written all over his face.
> 
> But Stiles isn’t your average girl. She’s the Sheriff’s daughter, and she’s been taught how to recognize danger from a mile away. And Peter Hale? He is ringing every single alarm bell she possess. It is something about the way he’s staring at her, eyes too bright, too heated. It is in his smile which is a touch too casual to be genuine. “Oh _god_ ,” she whimpers. “I’m going to _die_.”
> 
> And she wants to leave, wants to run away and pretend this never happened, that Peter Hale _isn’t_ the alpha they’d been trying to find, that the older man _didn’t_ know who she is. She takes a single step backwards, and it’s like her vision blurs for a brief moment.
> 
> Peter is gone.                                   
> 
> She takes another step backwards, and …no, no he’s really _not_.
> 
> She whimpers again, because Peter Hale is _behind_ her, body a burning line of muscled hardness practically _radiating_ strength and power, and _she’s going to die_. She tenses when he wraps a thick hand casually around her neck, tilting her head to the side.
> 
> “ _Shhh_ ,” Peter croons as he dips his head and casually rubs the good side of his face against her throat. “I won’t hurt you.”
> 
> And that’s not really doing anything to help her relax, because if he’s not going to kill her, and he’s not going to hurt her, what else is there? What else but…? But surely rape counts as hurting, yes?
> 
> She trembles in Peter’s grasp, and tries not to be thankful when Derek comes tearing into the room, separating her from Peter. She wastes no time hightailing it out of the hospital when Derek tells her to run. She just turns and flees, ignoring the roar of absolute fury that echoes through the empty halls as she does so.
> 
>  ~~~~
> 
> She finds out from Scott that Derek has joined Team!Peter, and she’s on the verge of having the largest panic attack she’s ever had since her mother died, because if Derek’s joined Peter, there’s really not much either of the two of them can do anymore. With Derek on their side, they had had a fighting chance, maybe. _Possibly_.
> 
> Without the older, more experience werewolf, however, she and Scott are sitting ducks.
> 
> She helps Scott as best she can to create plans to protect Allison and Melissa from any attempt Peter may make against them. The problem is that after the confrontation Scott has with Peter and Derek in the school locker rooms, Peter never _once_ approaches Scott. He doesn’t threaten, doesn’t cajole, and doesn’t even give a basic sales pitch. It’s highly nerve-wracking, especially considering that she and Scott have to hide everything from the others. Scott has this easier than her, because he’s naïve enough to believe that the ostrich-effect is a viable alternative.
> 
> Stiles isn’t, because Stiles has a cop for a father, and she _knows_ that Peter’s continued inaction is Not Good.
> 
> But in the name of normality, Stiles can’t ignore her best friend’s girlfriend when Allison suggests dress shopping for the Winter Formal. She does manage to beg out of group-shopping with Lydia, because Lydia in a store honestly scares the living beejeezus out of her. She promises to text Allison and Lydia with a photo of her dress choice so that they can coordinate, and heads to the nearest Macy’s.
> 
> This is the largest mistake she’s ever made.
> 
> Peter shows up.
> 
> Peter shows up and spends the next hour making her try on various dresses like he’s the world’s creepiest fashion coach, eyes never once leaving her body. She can’t run – she knows he’s faster than her. She can’t scream for help, because the man never once touches her, never once says anything that can be construed as harassment – sexual or otherwise – and there are witnesses to prove it.
> 
> She knows that Peter won’t do anything to her in public like this, but Stiles can’t relax. There is something about the way he is watching her, about the way he is _smiling_ at her, that has her honestly terrified.
> 
> He buys the dress he eventually tells her is the best suited for her – a blood-red thing that is entirely too short, too thin, and too revealing to be something she’ll ever be comfortable wearing (even if it _does_ do amazing things to her legs). He hands her the bag, fingers trailing teasingly against hers. It’s the first time he’s touched her since that night in the hospital, and her stomach clenches in combined fear and nausea.
> 
> “Be seeing you,” he tells her, smiling wolfishly. Then he just walks off, as casual as you please – nothing to see here folks! – whistling merrily.
> 
> Stiles sits in her jeep for a long time, trembling, giving serious thought to setting the Macy’s bag on fire. It is only the thought of what Peter might do to her if she does that has her digging her phone out instead to take pictures of the dress for Allison and Lydia.
> 
>   ~~~~
> 
> She attempts to go to school the next day like everything is fine.
> 
> Everything is _not_ fine. Nothing will _ever_ be fine again. Scott is an oblivious idiot, and Stiles wants nothing more than to scream at him that they’ve bitten off more than either of them can chew, and that maybe now would be a _really_ good time to consider either capitalization or moving.
> 
> She is personally voting for moving. Possibly to Antarctica, because she doubts anywhere within the US is going to be far enough for her to feel even remotely safe.
> 
>   ~~~~
> 
> She’s in the process of getting ready when she becomes aware of a presence behind her. “Scott?” she asks, hoping against hope that her friend is playing a sick joke on her.
> 
> “Not quite,” comes Peter’s distinctive voice. And then there’s a hand around her waist dragging her against a solid body and another hand holding a folded cloth against her face.
> 
> She struggles, of course she does, but Peter’s too strong and she’s feeling …really…fuzzy….
> 
>   ~~~~
> 
> She never does make it to the formal.
> 
>   ~~~~
> 
> She becomes aware of herself in slow stages. Her vision is blurry at first and her mouth feels like someone stuffed it full of cotton, but aside from feeling vaguely bruised and desperately thirsty, she’s in one piece and still in the same dress she had been in when Peter kidnapped her, so.
> 
> She is surrounded by the scent of ash and despair and old decay. Even if she didn’t have working eyes, it is by scent alone that she knows she’s in the old Hale house, though _where_ in said house is another thing altogether. She’s never made it past the foyer before, even as a kid on a dare. She’s guessing she’s in the old basement though, considering there’s something resembling a ceiling above her.
> 
> It doesn’t help with the cold. She is freezing, and the thin dress Peter bought her is not doing much to help ward off the chill. The floor beneath her is hard and compact, and seems designed to steal body heat rather than help retain it. She huddles into herself, stretches the skirt of her impractical dress to the limits trying to tuck it around her knees, which is how she finally notices the chain she’s rather firmly attached to.
> 
> It is a chain comparable to the one she bought to contain Scott, so she doesn’t even bother to attempt to break it. She simply stares at it. It takes her a long, long moment to consider everything she’s been taught about psychopaths and sociopaths and their victims before she finally has the panic attack that she’s been threatening to have for the past week and a half.
> 
> She hyperventilates herself right back into unconsciousness.
> 
>   ~~~~
> 
> When she next wakes up, there is a blanket tucked almost lovingly around her, a crate by her head with several bottles of water and some non-perishable food, and her chain’s been lengthened just enough to reach the opposite side of the basement, where the faded remnants of what may or may not have been a bathroom can barely be seen.
> 
> She assumes this is so she doesn’t have to deal with the added embarrassment of soiling herself.
> 
> She tries not to be pathetically grateful for the small necessities Peter’s granted her, but it’s hard not to be, especially when her stomach gurgles forlornly, reminding her she hasn’t had even so much as a single curly fry in at least a day.
> 
> She sips her water slowly, eats a bit of jerky, and curls up under her blanket. She wonders if anyone has reported her missing yet. She wonders what her father’s thinking, whether or not he’s assumed she’s run off again. (She’s done it before, once or twice, when things were bad between them. She’s always come back though, so it’s not inconceivable that her father might wait for a week or two before finally going spare.) More to the point, she wonders what Peter has planned for her.
> 
>  ~~~~
> 
> She spends more time asleep then she does awake.
> 
> It shouldn’t be possible, but she suspects that her food is being drugged.
> 
> No. She _knows_ her food is being drugged. She’s not exactly a deep sleeper to begin with, and yet she’s managed to not only sleep for what feels like days at a time, but also through someone replenishing her supplies whenever she’s under. There are also other signs, things she tries very hard not to think about, because if she does, she might not stay sane for much longer.
> 
> Things like how she’s never dirty, despite that she’s been sleeping on a cement floor in a condemned building for what seems like weeks but may only be days. Things like how the blankets she finds swaddled around her constantly smell like freshly done laundry. Things like how she hasn’t woken up wearing the same outfit even once. Things like bruises on her hips and thighs. Things like bite marks and hickies on her throat and trailing down her stomach. Things like how she wakes sometimes with an ache deep inside her that won’t go away for hours. Things like how sometimes she drifts in an abyss between dreams and wakefulness to a low, rumbling purr-like growl and possessive weight pressed up against her, curled around her.
> 
> She tries not to think at all when she’s awake. Just eats the food she finds and drinks her drugged water like a good little girl, because her father is the sheriff, and he’s never sugar-coated the world for her. So she knows that when Peter decides he’s had enough of playing with a drugged-up little doll that she is not going to fight him. She knows that she is going to do everything in her power to play the good little girl for him. She will do what he wants, when he wants it, because she knows that at the end of the day, rape victims have a _chance_. They can be helped and supported and healed, given time and patience.
> 
> Murder victims simply died. And there really isn’t much one can do about death.
> 
>  ~~~~
> 
> Time passes.
> 
> She doesn’t know how much, just knows that her periods of wakefulness are growing longer in between her enforced naps. She still sees no one, but her captor has thoughtfully provided her something to do besides sit in a pile of blankets and stare at the walls. (Peter had left her with nothing to do only once in the entirety of her captivity – she screamed for hours after her imagination got her going once she remembered that this is where the Hale family had burned to death. Peter left her drugged more often after _that_ episode.)
> 
> There is no phone, no laptop, nothing that would allow her to communicate in any form with the outside world, and there certainly isn’t anything she could use that would present a danger to herself. Nothing with small pieces for her to swallow, nothing with sharp edges for her to use to try and end whatever this is. (Not that she would. She’s rather firmly attached to the idea of living.) There’s also nothing that allows her to keep track of the date.
> 
> But with everything that begins to show up slowly, she notices that there’s no way in hell it’s just Peter choosing the things he brings her to occupy herself with.
> 
> Usually she finds books.  Most are old-fashioned faerie tales, dark and evocative and moving in ways the standardized Disney tales will never manage to be. Some are best-sellers: Steven King, BROM, Anne Rice, and David Eddings are among her favorite of the various authors that she’s being exposed to. Most are very obviously haphazardly chosen, as if the one choosing had no idea what she might like to read. (She’s still privately amused that a copy of Machiavelli’s ‘The Prince’ ends up in a pile.)
> 
> But only Scott would know that she’s a closet artist. So when she wakes up one morning to find her school bag stuffed to the brim with Bristol Smooth paper and soft-lead pencils and her markers, she nearly breaks down in tears on the spot, because at the very least it means that Peter _hasn’t_ killed Scott.
> 
> So she reads and draws and eats.
> 
> Sometimes she sings quietly to herself, mostly because she needs to hear something besides the house settling around her. Mostly she just holds conversations with her mother like she used to when everything had been falling apart shortly after her mother’s death. She talks and talks and talks. She adds in randomly placed messages to Peter, just in case he’s being super-creepy and listening in on her, which, while she won’t put past him, she rather doubts. He’d been busy running around trying to avenge his family when he took her, and surely even if that is taking longer than he’d planned, there are still the legalities of appearing out of thin air after going missing from the long-term care ward of the hospital without even a trace of burns scars to be sorted through. He must be a very, very busy man.
> 
>  ~~~~
> 
> And the time goes by.
> 
> She passes her time and reads her books and tries very, very hard not to get angry on the mornings she wakes up fuzzy-headed and sore. She is always, always carefully cleaned and dressed when she wakes up, but she isn’t stupid. Peter uses her so hard some nights she can’t walk straight, and while fanfiction and porn has always told her that is a good feeling, she can now honestly say she’s been lied to.
> 
> It’s not fun and it’s not sexy to wake up feeling like a baseball bat had been shoved up her vagina. It’s not fun and it’s not sexy to have to struggle to stand on shaking legs because the bruises are bone-deep and she fucking _hurts_. It’s not fun and it’s _certainly_ not sexy when she goes to the bathroom and pulls down her underwear only to stare at the spots of blood dotting the crotch because Peter had used her so hard he _tore her_ inside.
> 
> Logically, she knows that the act of rape is not about sexuality or sensuality or ever real desire. It is about power, about control, about making the victim feel powerless and helpless and totally at the mercy of the victim’s captor. Peter is a smart man, regardless of whatever else he may be. He would _have_ to know that what he’s doing is doing the exact opposite of making her feel powerless. Most nights before she drifts off to sleep, she’ll spend a long time curled up in her make-shift bed, staring at the ceiling, imagining what she is going to do to Peter if she ever gets him alone and in a vulnerable state. She passes straight-up murder _very_ early on in her captivity. Her plans only grow more and more blood-thirsty as she goes.
> 
> They also get more and more _disturbing_ , because she is honestly curious at why he feels the need to fuck her while she sleeps the deep sleep of the righteously drugged. She is honestly _curious_ about why, if this _isn’t_ about subjugating her, he never once made an attempt to seduce her if he doesn’t want to fight her for the sex.
> 
> She tries not to feel _insulted_ about that, tries to tell herself that it is a _good_ thing that he’s never made an attempt to make the sex-thing something even remotely mutual. She also tries to tell herself that it’s a _very_ good thing that she remembers nothing of him actually touching her.
> 
> It doesn’t work.
> 
>  ~~~~
> 
> She knows something isn’t right when she gets up one morning and she’s not clothed.
> 
> She looks down at her body, noticing that for once there are no tell-tale bruises or bite-marks or scratches. There’s no tell-tale ache from within.
> 
> She breathes shakily. Peter hasn’t fucked her while she slept this time.
> 
> She’s not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing. On one hand, the man could be coming to his senses, could be feeling remorse for what he’s done to her. On the other hand… on the other hand, it may mean he’s gotten bored with her. She tries not to panic at the thought, tries not to imagine what might happen to her if Peter doesn’t want her anymore.
> 
> It doesn’t work.
> 
> Her imagination has always been a fertile ground for the morbid and the obscene, and each imagining gets only bloodier and crueler as she goes on. But that’s not what does her in. What does her in is noticing that despite her limited diet, she’s gained weight. She’s gained weight and she hasn’t had her period yet, despite the fact that she was due a week after the Formal. She hasn’t paid much attention to that, because in times of stress her body tends to skip the period thing – she had gone almost a full year without a period after her mother died. And this situation? Let’s just say she hadn’t been surprised when it failed to show.
> 
> But she’s gained weight. And Peter suddenly decides not to touch her, even after going through all the trouble of undressing her. And she hasn’t been re-dressed, as if he had left rather abruptly.
> 
> As if he discovered something that changes things.
> 
> She’s not stupid. She knows that Peter’s been fucking her while she’s been in drugged sleep. She seriously doubts he’s been using any form of protection, either.
> 
> She’s _pregnant_.
> 
> She’s sixteen years old and the captive of an insane alpha werewolf who is keeping her chained in the basement where his entire family died, and she’s carrying his _child_. She can’t… she isn’t just playing this game for herself now. There’s another life, so small and fragile, growing inside of her, and there’s no way Peter hasn’t already seen.
> 
> It is the first time in weeks – _months?_ – that she has a panic attack.
> 
>  ~~~~
> 
> She gets new books. Almost all of them are old and hand-written. It takes her a day or two to realize she’s reading about werewolves. Their dynamics, their pack structures, the bonds between members and the effects certain things have on them. Things like the effects certain scents have on unmated alphas. Things like how an alpha’s biggest drive is to create a pack.
> 
> She learns that an alpha will always try to create a pack through biting first and foremost, because it is quickest and cleanest and most effective. It actually _reassures_ her that it is only when biting fails – for a variety of reasons – that the alpha is driven to mate. She reads through the books and learns of the traits that most unmated alphas tend to look for in a mate – resourcefulness, cunning, loyalty, intelligence, ability to nurture – and realizes that she’d been doomed the second she’d done everything in her power that night at the school to keep Scott out of Peter’s influence.
> 
> She’s fucked _herself_ on this one.
> 
> The irony that in saving Scott from becoming Peter’s beta she’d apparently proven herself worthy of becoming the other half of the Alpha Pair _kills_ her.
> 
>   ~~~~
> 
> She wakes to the sound of something heavy being tossed down the stairs with a thick, meaty splat.
> 
> She startles so bad she knocks over her make-shift bedside table, spilling her remaining water everywhere. She curls into herself, eyes wide, heartbeat skyrocketing, arms crossed protectively over her protruding stomach, staring at the stairs she could never reach, no matter how hard she tried. (She only tried once. She’d woken up with bruises up and down her backside, and she’d never tried again.) The something shifts, groaning weakly in pain.
> 
> It is a person.
> 
> Correction.
> 
> It is _Scott_.
> 
> Scott, who is broken and beaten and bleeding. Scott, who is crawling to a small corner as far away from her as he can get, eyes downcast and face ashamed. She stares wide-eyed at him, before closing her eyes, trying not to panic. When she finally gets her heartbeat under control and opens her eyes again, she becomes aware of two things:
> 
> The first: Derek Hale is sitting against the wall, perfectly still, not looking at either her or Scott, shoulders hunched, lips pulled tightly together.
> 
> The second: Peter Hale is standing at the top of the stairs, smiling pleasantly, covered in blood.
> 
> She does what is only natural at this point, after so long spent isolated that she’s almost forgotten what other humans look like: she faints.
> 
>  ~~~~
> 
> When she becomes aware of herself again, she is on Peter’s lap, head tucked beneath into the curve of his jaw, one hand cradling her head, the other petting her spine in long, soothing strokes. She is (mostly) covered by her blankets, and it doesn’t even once occur to her to tense. She allows him to pet her, allows him to croon meaningless sounds at her, because he’s had her all this time, and – despite taking advantage of her while she’s drugged – he has never once _harmed_ her. He’s fed her, watered her, given her warm clothing and blankets; he has been actually strangely decent to her, compared to how bad she knows this situation could get.
> 
> She knows what this is. She’s done a report or two on Stockholm Syndrome. She recognizes the symptoms.
> 
> She also knows it’s her best chance for survival.
> 
> So she allows herself to snuggle into his embrace, allows a soft little sigh to release as she relaxes further, allows him to touch her like he has any right to.
> 
> Eventually Peter twists her around so that while she is still seated on his lap, she is now facing the rest of the basement. He wraps his arms possessively around her stomach, one hand idly tracing patterns onto the taught flesh.
> 
> Scott (now looking much less like he’d lost a fight with a meat-grinder) and Derek are both sitting cross-legged in front of her. Neither of them can look her in the eyes, which irritates her. They sit in silence for a long moment before she finally figures out that she is going to have to be the one to open communications here.
> 
> “Is it done?” she asks quietly. “Is Kate dead? Is your vengeance finished?”
> 
> Peter’s arms tighten around her. Scott shudders and whines, and Derek actually flinches.
> 
> “Yes,” Peter says.
> 
> “Good,” she says firmly, because if nothing else, Kate deserved everything she got and more. “Does this mean I can stop living in the basement of a condemned building?” There is a long moment of silence where no one says anything. She huffs. “Because I seriously doubt living this way is going to be any good for the baby.”
> 
> Derek honest to god chokes.
> 
> Peter goes very, very still, and if the situation weren’t so serious, Stiles might be tempted to laugh.
> 
> But this isn’t a laughing matter. Not even by a smidgen.
> 
> “Baby?” Scott asks, practically pleading without words for her to be yanking his chain, to not mean what he thinks she means. She raises an eyebrow, because Scott’s mother had been a nurse, and she knows Scott knows what a pregnant girl looks like. Stiles doesn’t know when she conceived, can’t quite gage the passing of time, but she suspects by how heavy she’s gotten that she’s at _least_ four to five months along.
> 
> “You _didn’t_ ,” Derek says. “Oh Christ, Peter, tell me you _didn’t_.”
> 
> Peter growls. Stiles doesn’t need enhanced senses to know that while Derek and Scott had known she was being held captive, they had not known what Peter had been doing to her. Right now, given the way she’s so calmly allowing Peter to touch her, she’s aware that Scott can be convinced it was all mutual, if not legal. It would be better for pack harmony, and verbal confirmation said in such a way that she technically isn’t lying might even get her out of this basement sooner.
> 
> Derek’s too world-weary to believe for even a second that she would have wanted this entirely on her own, though. She knows that the best she’d ever get away with is extremely dubious consent that grew into mutual desire. She also knows that all she has to do is confirm the terrible suspicion that she can see growing in Derek’s eyes as he stares at Peter, and she will have two enraged betas attempting to kill Peter for what he’s done.
> 
> She’s not going to lie, she’s tempted. _Very_ tempted. She’ll play passive little doll, because that is what will see her and her baby through all this alive and whole, but there’s a part of her that is _screaming_ for blood and retribution. And if had been it just herself right now, she might have done it. Might have given Derek and Scott the reason they needed to push against Peter’s control.
> 
> But she has a life that is dependent on her now, and that makes her cautious. She can feel Peter behind her. He is quiet, poised. He is waiting, patiently, for her to make her choice. She knows what he is capable of. Knows that while Derek may be capable of some of the same things, may be broken and angry in all the right ways, he will _never_ be able to reach that same level of casual, ruthless cruelty. And Scott would be angry on her behalf, angry enough to fight, but he could barely keep up with Derek most days. Peter would tear her pseudo-brother apart. He’d tear them _both_ apart.
> 
> And she’d be left to deal with the fallout.
> 
> No. She is determined to live, and live well. There will come a day where she will make Peter pay for everything he’s ever done. But that day is a long ways off, and cannot happen if she’s chained in a basement; it will not happen if Peter does not trust her.
> 
> So she smiles sheepishly and shrugs her shoulder. “I admit I was kind of freaked out about this whole thing,” she says, gesturing at the chain which even now adorns her ankle. “But I’ve made my peace with it. New alphas can’t be held responsible for the lengths they’ll go to keep their mate safe.”
> 
> Peter’s arms tighten around her, his entire body tensing, a low, warning growl vibrating along her back. She pushes her body back into him as much as she is capable of, makes a show of settling back in.
> 
> “Mate,” Derek says, disbelievingly.
> 
> “Mmmm,” she hums in agreement. “I’m using the term presumptuously, of course, because nothing’s been finalized, or even really talked about yet, but the information was left for me in one of those books on pack dynamics, and it was the only thing I could find that fit, especially given the baby.” She idly pats Peter’s arm. “Thanks for leaving those, by the way. It made dealing with the freak outs a little easier.”
> 
> Derek and Scott both stare at her. Scott is the one who speaks next, tone tentative and small. “Was it…did he rape you?” he asks.
> 
> This is it. _This_ is where everything will change. She takes a deep breath, meets her pseudo-brother’s doe-brown eyes and smiles. “I’ve never told him no.” Her heartbeat remains steady and still, because it is the truth, the absolute truth. She turns her gaze to Derek, and says just as solemnly, “I’ve never once asked him to stop.” Neither of them needs to know that the only reason either of those statements is true is because she’s never been awake to say them. That will stay between her and Peter, a dark little secret she’ll take straight to Peter’s grave.
> 
> Peter relaxes his grip on her, a small approving hum escaping him as he nuzzles almost fondly against the little patch of skin behind her ear. “ _Good girl_ ,” he breathes, voice too low for even the other werewolves to hear.
> 
>  ~~~~
> 
> It takes Peter another week before he lets her out of the basement.
> 
> Not to say that her treatment hasn’t improved. She has an actual mattress, for one thing. Derek and Scott both visit her now, for another. She’s allowed to have a laptop, which has all kinds of games loaded on it, but there’s no internet connection out this far into Hale territory, so she can’t access the internet. The laptop’s sole redeeming feature is the calendar.
> 
> She learns she’s been trapped in the Hale basement for almost a full year.
> 
> She cries for a long time when she sees that.
> 
> Scott’s the one who answers her questions. He tells her about how her dad had only waited the required 24 hours before filing a missing persons report, how they eventually found her jeep on the side of a highway in Nevada near Las Vegas. How they’d found a corpse not even a week later in the desert, too badly mauled to identify, missing anything that could have identified who she was – fingers had been removed, blood drained, teeth extracted. DNA profiling proved to be inconclusive, but the corpse had been wearing the tattered remains of the dress Peter had bought her for the formal. Her father didn’t last long after that – he put a bullet through his brain three months later. Scott pauses for a long time before admitting quietly that he and Derek both thought the dead body was hers as well, until Peter finally told them she was being kept in the Hale house basement, but that they weren’t allowed to see her until there was no chance the Argents could ruin things.
> 
> (She doesn’t cry. She sits for a long time in silence, thinking. Eventually she puts her father’s death under the little tally she’s keeping in her head of things Peter will need to pay for, and moves on. Scott doesn’t stop looking at her funny, and Derek keeps making these aborted motions as if he really just wants to hug her but keeps thinking better of it.)
> 
> Its Scott who tells her about the deaths of the Argents, the only one of whom got a quick death being Allison, on account of her not actually being a hunter. He tells her of how Gerard Argent came. About the mini war that Peter only barely won, the very war that prompted Peter to finally tell them she was alive, because if he died no one would know and she’d starve to death.
> 
> She spends a long time thinking about that, too.
> 
>  ~~~~
> 
> She decides, shortly after they have her safely placed in Peter’s apartment, settled, fed, and watered, that her and Peter need to talk, seriously, about what comes next. She’s angry with him, angry enough to kill, and she thinks he knows this because he’s constantly watching her, face so carefully blanked of all emotion. But she also knows that he has her now, more so than ever. Her father is dead, Melissa McCall is missing, and Stiles has no one else. She also has a child growing within her, and despite who put that child in her and how, she loves it more with every passing day. So, yes, they need to talk. Because she’s not giving up her child, not to him. If that means she needs to capitulate a bit more on her end then she’d ever planned on doing, so be it.
> 
> “We need to discuss what happens once I have my child,” she opens. She’s made sure neither Scott nor Derek are in the apartment for this discussion, because she knows eventually things will be said that will ruin what fragile peace exists between them. Right now this awkward shuffling of ‘pack’ is barely holding onto itself, and she knows a lot of the unspoken tension comes from whatever is going on between her and Peter. Werewolves don’t like uncertainties within pack hierarchy, and uncertainty is all she’s bringing to the table right now. Peter won’t touch her, won’t claim her properly as mate, but he also won’t let either Derek or Scott touch her either, not even to give her a hug. He’s carefully solicitous of her, willing to get her anything she might mention she needs, but he won’t listen to her, won’t talk to her.
> 
> Well. He _hadn’t_ been talking to her. She kind of isn’t going to let him get away from this. Derek’s treating her more weirdly with every passing day, and if Scott asks her if she’s okay one more time she’s going to _hurt_ someone. Cornering Peter in the kitchen as he is making breakfast for her is kind of petty, she knows, but it’s the only room in the apartment with only one entryway – and she’s currently leaning in it. He’d have to physically move her to get away from her, but he’s been too careful about touching her lately for that to be an option.
> 
> “Our child,” Peter corrects her quietly. He’s not looking at her as he carefully manipulates the knife he’s using to chop the veggies he’s planning on throwing in her omelet.
> 
> Stiles quirks an eyebrow at him. “Can I ask you something, Peter?”
> 
> He looks at her, quietly considering, before nodding once.
> 
> “Why haven’t you touched me sexually since you discovered I was pregnant?”
> 
> His face contorts, body stiffening. She watches avidly, internally cataloging every emotion she sees flicker across his face. There’s guilt there, surprisingly. Some sorrow, some uncertainty, but mostly irritation. He puts down the knife and places his hands on the counter firmly. He breathes deeply.  “Wouldn’t you prefer I never touched you again?” he asks finally.
> 
> She shrugs. “I don’t actually _remember_ being touched at _all_ , and I think that’s quite a shame, actually, all things considered.” She waddles into the kitchen and claims a seat at the island. “I never quite understood why you felt the need to drug me, either, considering I wasn’t exactly going anywhere at the time.”
> 
> The look he shoots her isn’t even remotely friendly, but he says nothing, just stands there in silence, watching her.
> 
> “Look, Peter,” she sighs. “I’m not sure if you knew this when you grabbed me, or if it was just 90% instinct with your alpha-needs and such, but I? I’m _really_ fucking pragmatic. I have no one else but the people who live in this apartment, and despite the way you’ve gone about doing things, I’m willing to give this a chance.” She smiles, and doesn’t need a mirror to know that it isn’t a happy smile. “I have a _life_ growing inside of me, Peter. There isn’t much I’m unwilling to do if it means that this child will grow up safe and happy. There isn’t much I’m unwilling to do to ensure I am there for all stages of this child’s life, the way I wish my mother had been there for mine.”
> 
> Peter studies her for a long moment, before nodding, once. He picks up his knife again, and returns to chopping vegetables. She watches him for a long moment.
> 
> “Peter?”
> 
> “Yes?”
> 
> “Just so you understand me perfectly: I am _not_ happy with how things went down. But I’m not going to run away. I’m not going to call the police and try and get out of this. I’m not going to tell Derek or Scott what really happened down there in that basement. I’m not going to fight you if and/or when you decide to claim me properly.” She takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. “What I _am_ going to do is try and make the best of my situation. Which means that if you want to _fuck_ me, then do so while I’m _aware_ this time, and make it good for me. Please.”
> 
> The knife embeds in the cutting board with a sharp *thwack* sound. “Not until after the baby comes,” he says, eyes glowing red.
> 
> She pauses. “Why?”
> 
> Peter smiles, and it is a cruel, twisted thing with too many teeth. “When I claim you, the stress your body will be under could cause it to abort the child. I won’t risk it.”
> 
> When, not _if_. She breathes shakily, placing a hand against her rounded stomach. Tries not to think about how discussing the werewolf version of marriage had become her life. At least Peter wouldn’t risk the baby. She can respect that, if nothing else.


	7. Fem!Stiles AU: Daddy!Peter (non-kink)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [preslai182](http://archiveofourown.org/users/preslai182) asked:  
>  If you're still taking prompts: I'd love a Fem!Stiles/Peter one! How about a Daddy!Peter one I'd love your take on how Peter is with his and Stiles' 'pups' and Stiles loves it a lot yet never thought he'd be a kid person. So, is pleasantly suprised/ turned on by it. If you could do that, I'd love you forever <3

> Stiles wakes slowly, lingering in that strange state of being between dreams and reality. She’s not sure what it is that woke her, knowing instinctively that it is too early for her to even think about awakening voluntarily, but yet unable to simply close her eyes and snuggle back into Peter’s warmth and drift back to her dreams. It strikes her then that the bed behind her is cold – Peter isn’t in it, and likely hasn’t been for some time. She frowns, sleepy brain unable to comprehend the idea that Peter isn’t curled up around her the way he usually is. She loves her husband, loves him dearly, but it took a long time to get used to his possessive clinging. Now that she has, it feels wrong not to have him plastered against her. She wonders absently if it is his absence that awoke her, before sighing and shifting out from underneath the covers.
> 
> There are only two reasons Peter would not be in bed right now.
> 
> The first is his lingering nightmares: being burned alive – _twice_ , raising himself back from the dead, and being trapped inside his head and body for six years being forced to listen to the memories of his family burning around him has left its mark. Sometimes being close to Stiles can soothe him back to sleep, sometimes her presence only aggravates the problem. There is too much history between them, too many nasty words and even nastier actions, for Peter to feel completely at ease with himself anywhere near her when he’s feeling three-seconds away from lashing out. Especially considering Stiles is still human, still fragile, won’t heal the damage he may do.
> 
> The second is their daughter, Ivanna. For the most part, Stiles knows they’re very, very lucky in that Ivanna tends to sleep through the night. Every now and then though, she gets fussy. Peter’s enhanced senses tends to alert him to their daughter’s sleeping difficulties long before Stiles, so Peter’s the one who usually takes care of the mid-evening changings and feedings.
> 
> Sure enough, as she tiptoes down the hall and peeks into their daughter’s nursery, there’s Peter, curled up on the window seat, daughter in the crook of his arms, humming softly as Ivanna sleepily suckles at the bottle he’s holding. Stiles settles against the door-frame, smiling, taking in the sigh of her husband. She’d never thought she’d ever see him like this, so content with just _being_.
> 
> She knows what he lost in the fire, and she knows that, even now, there’s a part of Peter that will never be whole again. There will always be a part of him that lingers in the depths of his own madness, that will hunger for the blood and suffering of everyone who lives when _they_ do not, but Stiles isn’t afraid of him, not anymore. She knows what she got herself into the day she agreed to the mating, she knows that she’s essentially chosen Peter over Derek and Scott and anyone else that dares come between Peter and what he wants.
> 
> But lately, there’s been a certain calmness to Peter, a certain ease with which he holds himself. There have been less nightmares, less deliberate poking at the pack’s insecurities, less time spent brooding over new plans and plots to take over the alpha position. She doesn’t want to hope that Peter’s finally realized that he doesn’t _need_ to be an alpha to have what he wants – a stable pack where he’s actually _wanted_ – but with every day that passes and Peter seems to settle more firmly into his current role in life, the hope grows.
> 
> And now, watching Peter with their little gift, with the child she almost lost because of one of Peter’s plots backfiring, she knows why he’s been so settled lately. Her smile softens, a hand coming to rest on the flat of her stomach. The sight of them both makes her long for another one, maybe a little boy this time, with Peter’s blue eyes and sharp wit and her tousled curls and rambunctious energy. She imagines, eyes slipping closed, absently rubbing her stomach as she does so.
> 
> So deep in her mental wanderings, she completely misses the way Peter finally looks over at her and just _stills_ , eyes burning bright electric-blue as he takes in the sight of his young mate dressed in nothing but his v-neck, hand rubbing small circles right over where her womb would be, smelling like sleep and want and _Peter_. It takes everything he has to turn away from the sight. He waits until Ivanna is done with her bottle, settling her over the burping cloth on his shoulder, gently patting her back until she burps, spitting up a little, but that’s alright, that’s what the cloth is for. He settles his baby into her crib, eyes her for a long moment to ensure she settles back into sleep before finally looking back at Stiles.
> 
> She hasn’t moved, hasn’t even so much as twitched in awareness that Peter was done feeding their child and was currently stalking towards her, hunger burning bright in almost-feral eyes. Part of it is that Stiles is still half-asleep, but most of her lack of awareness lies in how safe she must feel, how much she must trust him not to hurt her intentionally. Peter likes that. The thought of Stiles - sarcastic, defiant, _ruthless_ Stiles - trusting him enough to let go to such a degree hits every instinct he has in all the right ways. He wants. He wants so much.
> 
> And he knows that Stiles will give him everything and anything he wants. All he has to do is take.
> 
> And so he does.


	8. Fic Idea (I Want it, like, Yesterday)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not an answered prompt, but something I wanted to share, because I really want to see this, and I figured getting it out to a larger audience might get it filled. So. Have a thing.

Although no one’s come out and said how old Peter is, I’ve always seen him  as being roughly around 8-10 years older than Derek, who I always thought was about 6-7 years older than Stiles and co. So, theoretically, someone Stiles’ age could be Peter’s kid - there are plenty of 14-17 year old daddies in the world, it’s not like it’s a new concept.

So, fandom, let’s ignore the whole Malia thing. I want a fic.

Maybe Claudia got drunk at a party 16-year-old Peter snuck into, and maybe Peter took advantage of the pretty older woman with an engagement ring (because, I’m sorry, but Peter can be pretty skeevy). Maybe when he finally slinks back home, Talia’s waiting for the boy who’s more like an estranged son than a brother, and can smell what he did, who he did it to. (Maybe Talia and Claudia are friends, or at least acquaintances). So she takes the memories of that night, and monitors Claudia, who - thanks to Peter’s meticulous nature - has no idea what happened after she passed out.

Talia knows before Claudia that she’s pregnant, but let’s her friend, acquaintance, whatever believe it’s her fiance’s child, resolving to break the truth if it ever becomes an issue. Human children born to wolves tend to either be extremely vulnerable to outside forces, or naturally magic, sometimes (rarely) both. But always a human child with wolf-genes is _drawn_ to the supernatural, and it to them. But then the fire happens, and well, gee. Guess who’s not around any more to break the news when shit goes down?

And we’ve all seen how careful Peter is canonically with Stiles. How he chased but never hurt - and he’s so good at hurting others, isn’t he? How despite the desire to, he didn’t bite Stiles. How he’s drawn to him, talks to him, snarks with him. How despite previous encounters with other characters, Peter actually _listens_ to Stiles when told no, despite previous history showing us he has no problem simply _taking_ , lets Stiles go with a gentle admonishment against lying and _leaves_. How he helps when Stiles asks.

Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe Peter recognizes that Stiles is somehow his, that the boy belongs intrinsically to _him_.

Write it. I want it. Please?

**I had to add something more to this, I hope no one minds. XD**

> I’m fine with everything from a fucked!up platonic relationship featuring possessive!Peter and fuck-no!Stiles, to family fluffy feels, to incestuous relationships featuring in-the-know!Peter and oblivious!Stiles (who has a daddy kink, ‘cause _of course_ he would).
> 
> On that last one though: everyone continues to think that Malia is Peter’s kid, and Peter plays along with it, because he knows better. She’s a fucking coyote. Completely different species there, darlings, how stupid can they all be? Oh well, not his problem. He cares nothing for the girl, so uses her as he wills, all the while playing at being a confused-about-feels!daddy. No, Peter knew exactly who his kid was the moment he actually sat down and thought about it. After all, there is only one teenager old enough to be his kid that he’s continuously felt drawn to, who he _knows_ \- intrinsically and instinctively - belongs to him, who he _knows_ was born to be a wolf.
> 
> Stiles.
> 
> Which is kind of a problem, because Peter doesn’t quite feel fatherly affection for him. He wants to keep the kid, oh yes, but he wants to keep him well-fucked and stuffed full of Peter’s come. Wants to see him writhing in pleasure so intense it’s agony in Peter’s bed. Wants to hear the kid beg and moan and whimper. Wants to smell his desperation and watch him cry as Peter wrings him out until he’s coming dry. He wants to claim the boy, mark him his, tie him down and spank some livid color into the boy’s plugged ass.
> 
> But also too, he wants to box Stiles up and keep him safe, wants to feed the kid because he doesn’t eat nearly enough, wants to hold him and pet him and encourage him, wants to watch as Stiles grows into someone dangerous and intelligent. He wants the boy to acknowledge that Peter’s his family, his _dad_.
> 
> It’s a problem, these conflicting thoughts.
> 
> Strangely enough, it’s Stiles himself that comes up with the perfect solution, not that Peter will ever tell him (he’s not stupid, okay, he knows if he tells Stiles he’ll lose him, and that? No. Just no.). Peter’s in the process of fucking him through the mattress, slowly though, long, hard thrusts designed to drive the boy crazy, always just missing the prostate. And Stiles whimpers out a soft, “Daddy,
> 
> _please_ ,” and Peter can’t help himself. He loses all control, plowing into the boy like he was unable to break him, and Stiles fucking _loves_ it. Screams and cries and holds onto Peter like he’s the only thing in Stiles’ life he could cling to, chanting a wild, “ _yes, daddy, daddy, yes, yes, yes, daddy, please_ ,” over and over again in Peter’s ear.


	9. Garage Scene Remix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Hey, you know that part of the garage scene where Peter is all up on Stiles' wrist? What say you about the look on his face as he's getting ready to bite?

**You mean this one?**

****

**If so, here’s what I say to that:**

> It’s the _look_ that changes history.
> 
> There is this look on Peter’s face as he is preparing to bite Stiles, who has yet to voice either a yes or no to the man’s offer. Eyelashes flutter as his eyes close, face relaxing into something almost content, nuzzling briefly against the soft skin of Stiles’ wrist, cheek lingering against the frantic beat of Stiles’ pulse like it is music to his ears.
> 
> Stiles is starting to tense, preparing himself to rip his arm out of the wolf’s grasp, knowing even as he does so that unless Peter wills it, he isn’t going to be able to escape. But something about that look on Peter’s face stills Stiles, makes him _actually_ ponder his choice instead of giving into the instinctive knee-jerk reaction of ‘hell no’. It strikes Stiles as he stares down at a contently nuzzling alpha werewolf that Peter is _asking_.
> 
> For Stiles’ _consent_.
> 
> Peter isn’t _forcing_ the bite on him, the way he did Scott. He isn’t _mauling_ Stiles, the way he did Lydia. He isn’t _silencing_ the mouthy teenager whose dad is the Sheriff and could really throw a kink in Peter’s plans for AFTER should Stiles decide to spill the beans. This is _truly_ the man’s idea of a gift, given freely, to be spurned or accepted as _Stiles_ wills.
> 
> Peter Hale will let him go, if Stiles rejects this. He won’t hurt Stiles, won’t punish him, and won’t bite him anyway. He will truly let Stiles go, if Stiles wants.
> 
> And he _wants_. Oh, does he want. But not to be let go. The longer he stares at Peter’s semi-blissed out expression, the more he thinks back to his interactions with the man this night, the more he realizes that Peter has never once intended on _actually_ harming Stiles. He’s bantered and snarked with Stiles, hauled Stiles around like a particularly errant pup, conceded to Stiles’ wish to get some form of aid for Lydia. He’s been patient and oddly gentle when previous records shown him to be particularly brutal and short-tempered and not-so-happening with the consent-thing.
> 
> And then that look on the field, calculating and curious, all the feral strength and passion of an alpha burning through him, softening back into too-pretty blue as Stiles first challenges and then – if reluctantly – submits. And those looks while they were in the jeep, when Peter obviously thought Stiles wouldn’t notice: full of concentration and intent, pursuing every little facial twitch Stiles had with laser-like focus.
> 
> Peter opens his eyes, a slow, wry smirk curling his thin lips. “Well, Stiles?” he practically purrs against Stiles’ wrist, and Stiles can feel every movement of Peter’s lips against his skin, every soft exhalation of warm breath.
> 
> And, just now.
> 
> _This_ look.
> 
> Peter is currently looking at him like Stiles is the answer to _everything_ , like if he has Stiles, he wouldn’t _need_ Scott or Derek or anyone else because Stiles is _it_. No one has ever looked at Stiles like that; no one has ever _wanted_ him like that.
> 
> That look is the main decider, really, but the gentle, loose way Peter holds his arm, allowing for Stiles’ possible rejection, and the way that – even as teeth elongate and eyes burn crimson – Stiles’ heartbeat doesn’t race in fear, also helps. Because he wants right back. _Of course_ he does. He wants to know what it would feel like, to belong to someone, to be someone’s most important person, to be someone’s reason for moving on. He thinks it may be a little fucked up that it’s a thirty-something-year-old man he really knows nothing about that wants him, but he’s pragmatic, he can work around that.
> 
> “If I say yes, can you _please_ leave Scott out of this?” he asks, because he may be curious, and he may _want_ , but not enough to throw his brother in all but blood under the bus. “He’s not –“ _like us, like **me**_ , he wants to say, because he’s self-aware enough to know that he could easily become like the very people his dad puts away for life if he’s not careful, “He’s too _good_ , for murder.”
> 
> Peter smiles. No wry smirks or half-grins. It’s a full-blown _smile_. And it’s like the sun breaking out from behind clouds, the way it lights up Peter’s face. Stiles’ breath catches at the way Peter’s smile makes his crimson eyes sparkle, the way it melts off years of pain and _hate_.
> 
> “Such a loyal boy,” Peter murmurs, almost absently, still smiling at Stiles. “If I let Scott go, would you? Say yes? To _me_?” His fingers – thicker and stronger than Stiles’ own – flex against Stiles’ wrist, momentarily tightening, letting Stiles feel how easy it would be to hurt him, to _force_ him, before relaxing again into their loose hold.
> 
> “ _Yes_ ,” Stiles breathes out before he even has time to stop and consider what it is he’s really agreeing to. He’s not dumb, a little oblivious and naïve at times to be sure, but he’s not _stupid_. There is something _special_ about his consent, something _important_. There is something about the way Peter is looking at him, the way he is actually considering throwing away a perfectly good beta (once Peter can get Scott to submit, which, admittedly, might be more trouble than it’s worth) for Stiles, something about the strange inflection in which he spoke that last question…. Peter isn’t just asking about the bite. Stiles doesn’t know for sure what it is Peter’s asking for, but he also doesn’t _care_.
> 
> There is _nothing_ he would not do for the safety and happiness of those he loves, which makes it a particularly good thing in many people’s book that Stiles loves very, very few. Scott is the second most important person in Stiles’ life, and even if he _didn’t_ actually want this, he would do it anyway because it would give Scott freedom from his deranged alpha.
> 
> And Stiles _does_ want this, wants it badly, badly enough that he doesn’t _care_ what is so significant about his consent. He doesn’t care that grown-ass men should really not be looking at sixteen-year-old-boys like that. He doesn’t care that Peter Hale is only a thought away from Bad Touch territory, and has been almost all night. He doesn’t care that he very strongly suspects that Peter is going to have sex with him sometime soon, if not tonight, and that it might not be a one-time thing. He doesn’t care that whatever this is might actually be a _for_ - _life_ kind of thing. He doesn’t care that his dad is literally going to flip his shit if he ever finds out about this – and Stiles knows he will, because Stiles a) can’t lie to save his life, and b) something tells him Peter isn’t going to be exactly the King of Subtle about any of this, either.
> 
> He wants this, and by doing this protects his brother. How could he possibly loose?
> 
> “Yes,” Stiles says again, and Peter doesn’t hesitate.
> 
> He pulls Stiles close, closer than should even remotely be appropriate, tilts his head to the side as he pulls Stiles’ arm closer to his mouth, and bites.

**A Note for Anyone:** The gif I found on google. It had no source that I could find, but if it’s yours or you know who made it, please link me so that I can link them. I’d greatly appreciate it. Thank you!


	10. Prom!Au - ft. same age PeterStiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [knitewalker](http://http://knitewalker.tumblr.com/) asked:
> 
> Can you write one that has a prom theme and they are all the same age and peter the popular boy and stiles is the outcast even though he is on the lacrosse team

> The two of them are obviously in different social circles, so they’ve never really interacted before. Even though they’re on the same lacrosse team, even though they share most of the same classes, most would lay some good money on neither of them knowing the others first name.
> 
> And why should they?
> 
> Peter is a borderline perfectionist and definite teacher’s pet. He has an easy time with school work, is a natural athlete (heh), and has never been seen going around picking on those in the lower social circles the way Whittmore and the rest of the douche-bag parade do. He’s a little …intense, but most are easilly swayed by his charm and natural wit. That he’s one of the hottest guys in school doesn’t hurt either.
> 
> Whereas Stiles is, _well_. He’s intelligent and witty, yes, but his ADHD does him no favors in the social skills department. He’s also something of a loner, having only one real friend in his grade - one Scott McCall, who might as well be considered his brother from another mother instead of a mere friend - and minor acquaintances throughout the other grades. None of the teachers like him, most considering him a smartass, because if there’s one thing Stiles can do? It’s sass.
> 
> But seriously, until Scott ends up bitten by the rogue alpha that Talia kills shortly after, Peter really had no idea that Stiles even _existed_. Which is kind of a shame, really, now that Peter _knows_. Because Stiles is _perfect_. Stiles is…Stiles is…he’s _everything_ , okay?
> 
> Peter watches him, because at first he doesn’t understand why he’s so drawn to the boy. It is Scott, after all, his big sister is gushing about - the True Alpha-to-be. But Stiles, who is entirely human and a package deal with Scott, is _different_. There is something there, something unique. He follows Stiles everywhere when he thinks he can get away with it. Breaks into the boy’s bedroom via an open window to snoop around, trying so hard to figure out what intrigues him so. And the more he watches, the more he stalks, the more he begins to piece together the puzzle that the boy represents.
> 
> Because despite being near the bottom of the social ladder, no one messes with him, really. Not even Jackson. It has nothing to do with the fact that Stiles’ dad is the Sheriff, and everything to do with the fact that the last person to try and beat up Stiles ended up with a broken nose, a dislocated jaw, and two broken fingers. Stiles is known for his babble, his inability to shut up, but Peter notices that Stiles never says anything with substance unless he wants to make a point - his babble is just that: babble meant to misdirect and turn people’s attention away. And slowly, surely, Peter begins to see the truth of Stiles, the indomitable core inside the slightly younger boy that will lead Stiles to some sort of greatness, or infamy, depending.
> 
> And Peter trulyly thinks he’s being subtle this entire time, but honestly? Stiles is a cop’s kid, and even if that weren’t the case, he’s really, really fucking observant. Of _course_ he notices Peter Hale stalking him. He’s not going to lie, he’s both kind of flattered and kind of terrified by it. On one hand, Peter Hale is one of the hottest boys in school, on the other - Peter tends to look _hungry_ as he’s watching Stiles, like he’s going to rip Stiles open and feast on his entrails. And he knows that Peter’s a werewolf, how could he not? What with the older boy’s sister practically stalking Scott, showing up at odd hours insisting Stiles’ bro needs to practice his control.
> 
> Stiles gives it two months. Peter never makes a move, never so much as speaks to Stiles or even acknowledges that Stiles _knows_. Naturally, this frustrates Stiles a little, but, hey, no biggie. He’s not exactly shy about doing what he wants when he wants to. (Just ask his dad, god only knows the number of times the Sheriff has had to sit his son down and explain to him just _why_ certain things were illegal.)
> 
> So, he gives it those two months, and then, when Peter fails to make his move, Stiles makes his.
> 
> He walks right up to Peter during lunch, right in front of all of the ‘popular’ kids, and matter-of-factually tells him, “You’re taking me to prom.”
> 
> And the _silence_. Drop dead silence spreads throughout the lunchroom, and everyone is looking their way.
> 
> "Am I?" Peter asks him, cocking one eyebrow and starting to smirk.
> 
> Stiles shrugs. “Well, I _could_ press charges for stalking, harassment, breaking and entering, and whatever else my dad can think up to make the charges that much more interesting.” He sticks his hands into his pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels, smirking like the little shit he knows he is. “If you would prefer.”
> 
> And Peter’s heart goes pitter-pat in his chest, because, yeah, alright, apparently confident!Stiles does it for him. “7 good for you?”


	11. Fem!Stiles AU: Amnesia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ladyergott](http://ladyergott.tumblr.com/) asked:
> 
> If you're still taking prompts and this appeals, I have an idea I'd like to see written. It's pretty simple, someway or another Stiles gets some degree of amnesia and a scheming Peter is the first person to find him (or her, if you'd prefer to write fem!Stiles). The details are really up to you, I just want to see how Peter would work with that sort of creative freedom.

> That Peter is the first find Stiles doesn’t surprise him. Out of everyone in Scott’s little pseudo-pack, Peter knows Stiles better than anyone, better than the girl herself, especially now. Stiles has no memory, is lost, alone, and vulnerable. The only reason Peter knows is because he had a small run-in with the witch that cursed the poor child. Unfortunately for Stiles, that run-in resulted in the witch’s rather violent death, which means the curse can’t simply be lifted: it has to run it’s course. Which is perfect for him, because without certain pesky memories in the way, Stiles is ripe for the pickings.
> 
> He almost had her, that night in the garage. Curious and afraid and wanting, Stiles had almost given in and let him claim her. Would have given in to him, were it not for her loyalty to Scott. But with no memories, Scott won’t be an issue, nor will her father’s lingering moral code (not that it’s really all that present, anymore.)
> 
> Peter is a responsible adult, so he calls Scott and gets his voicemail. So Peter leaves a message telling Scott he had a ‘rather violent encounter with a witch, don’t mind the eviscerated body on Lexington and Fifth, hope nobody was cursed, how’s your mom by the way?’
> 
> Chuckling, he disconnects, and sets out to find his wayward girl.
> 
> =
> 
> He finds her at the base of the Nemeton, slumped and unconscious in the dirt. She looks like she has passed out, face worn and pale, possibly recovering from the effects of a panic attack. Peter crouches in front of her, frowning slightly as he finally gets his first good look at her up close in almost two months.
> 
> She’s lost weight, and this girl could ill afford it. She hasn’t been sleeping regularly either, judging by the dark circles beneath her eyes. Personal hygiene didn’t appear to be an issue - unless one counted too many showers and too-harsh scrubbing. He lightly touches her cheek, feeling the prominent cheek-bone the way he never could before, harsh and brittle against his hand. She stirs a little at the touch, but doesn’t wake, body too exhausted.
> 
> He frowns harder. All his plans were based on the girl being whole and healthy, if highly confused. He wants Stiles in a state where she can be easily manipulated, but never easily dominated. He taps his fingers against her cheekbone, thinking. It is possible that he could nurse her back to health, provide her stability he’s suddenly very sure neither her friends or her father have been providing for her. Doing so would build memory-less Stiles’ trust in him, would let her think turning to him first for comfort and affection was best, but…
> 
> But Peter doesn’t really have that kind of time. It’s only a matter of hours before Scott gets that message and spreads it around. And from there it’s only a matter of who responds and who doesn’t. Peter gives it 4 hours, tops, before someone realizes Stiles had been a victim of the witch Peter had killed, which leaves Peter with roughly 3 hours to bind the girl to him, or risk her slipping through his claws yet again. He’d wait for another chance, but something tells him if he lets her go again, he’ll never get her back.
> 
> And that’s completely unacceptable.
> 
> He sighs as he picks her up, too easily by far, even considering his natural strength. If nothing else, he’ll have to start making sure she eats on a regular basis, even if that means putting the fear of god into Scott and her father.
> 
> =
> 
> Peter gently removes her dirt-marked clothing, stripping her down to just her underwear before slipping one of his longer button-downs over her head. He has to take a small moment to adjust himself once he’s done, as the image of her half-naked in his clothing is, well. It does things to him. He wants to see her like this always, in his bed, in his clothing, though he would prefer if she was worn out through a thorough fucking rather than a panic attack in the middle of the woods.
> 
> But, that will come later, if at all.
> 
> He tucks her gently into his bed, an involuntary smile dragged out of him as she snuffles against his sheets and then sighs, body relaxing and slipping deeper into her dreams. He hopes they’re good ones, for her sake. He backs away quietly, turning off the bedroom light and then closing the door. He considers his options for a long moment, twisting ideas in his head to see if he could buy himself some time.
> 
> He can, if he does this right.
> 
> Peter locks the apartment as he goes, hoping Stiles doesn’t wake before he gets back. He needs to lay a few false trails, check in with Scott and tell him he’s off on a minor road-trip, so don’t call him for anything for at least three days. He also needs to get the supplies for a decent scent-blocker, so that Derek can’t track his ass down like the last time Peter lied about a road-trip.
> 
> And speaking of spells, he suddenly remembers that Stiles is a spark, easily tracked by the amount of untrained magic she leaks out on a daily basis. Peter will also need supplies to ward against scrying spells, apparently.
> 
> Joy.
> 
> =
> 
> It takes him 2 hours to get everything done, including the ward inked onto all the windows and doors to his apartment. Peter has bought himself 3 days.
> 
> Three days to win over Stiles. Three days to convince her to let him claim her. Three days before someone forcibly breaks down his door and takes Stiles away from him. Well. _Tries_ to take her away from him. He’s not letting her go without a fight, not this time. He’s learned his lesson when the last time he let her go, she set him on fucking fire.
> 
> He’s not going to lie, there’s a small part of him that thinks about _breaking_ her for that. But the larger part of him knows better, knows that she is everything he could ever want in a partner. He knows that despite her young age, she is a force to be reckoned with, a necessary balance to his innate lack of humanity. With her at his side, there is nothing he couldn’t do. Stiles as his enemy, _well_ , he might as well just light _himself_ on fire here and now, because he knows what she is, deep, deep down.
> 
> She’s just as much a monster as he is, she just hides it better.
> 
> He crawls into his bed, pulling Stiles’ limp body over him, breathing in her scent. No, he’s not going to let her go, not now. Not ever.
> 
> =
> 
> "Wakey, wakey, baby girl," a voice croons in her ear, a deep rumble she can feel vibrate in front of her. She passed out at the base of a cut-down tree, but now she’s surrounded by warmth, with a firm, steady heart-beat against her ear, and a pair of solid arms wrapped firmly around her. She snuggles deeper into the embrace, not caring who found her, because this is the safest she’s felt since she suddenly didn’t even remember her own name. Besides, she has a feeling she knows this man. He touches her like he has a _right_ to, firm yet gentle caresses along her back that make her want to arch and purr. And something in her recognizes his voice, too. 
> 
> "Come on, baby girl, time to rise and shine," the man beneath her says.
> 
> She raises her head and gets her first look at the man holding her as she lies on him. His eyes are what catches her attention first - bright blue with soft grey circling around his pupil, damnably pretty with lashes to die for - and it only gets better from there. He has strong cheekbones, a killer jawline, thin lips that look divinely kissable, and a cleft in his chin that she finds strangely endearing. A day’s worth of stubble, tousled hair just long enough to get a good grip on, and she’s hooked.
> 
> "Hi," she says, curious and shy and completely bewildered. Because she _knows_ she knows this man - knows it in the way her heart starts to beat wildly, the way her stomach clenches and her breath catches, the way she longingly wants to bury her teeth in the man’s throat - but she doesn’t understand the mix of emotions she experiences. There is fear, lust, hatred, and want, all weaving through her mind, and she doesn’t understand it.
> 
> "Hey," he says back. He smiles at her, something soft and - frustratingly - unfamiliar, like she’s never seen that expression on this face. Well, technically she hasn’t, but she thinks he’d look much more familiar with a smirk on his face.
> 
> =
> 
> She’s awake, and thankfully, Peter can tells she’s not nearly as broken as he’d thought she was. She definitely will need care and comfort for a while, but Peter sees the core of Stiles - indomitable and strong - shining through her eyes as she gazes curiously at him, frowning slightly as if some part of her recognizes that nothing about this scenario is right, but unable to say why. That’s good. Peter can work with that.
> 
> For a moment, he had feared that the witch’s curse would have affected _all_ of her memories, reversing her to an infant’s level of mental maturity, but thankfully, it seems only certain ones have been affected. “Do you recognize me?” he asks, curious.
> 
> She frowns at him deeper, squinting a bit as she thinks. “Yes?” she says uncertainly. “I don’t know your name, or how I met you, or what I’m doing in your arms,” she looks around slightly, amending quickly, “your _bedroom_ , when the last thing I remember is collapsing against this old cut-down tree, but I know _you_.”
> 
> She says the last bit like an accusation. Peter can’t help but grin in reply. _Definitely_ still Stiles beneath it all.
> 
> He shifts her body minutely, so that she’s straddling his growing erection instead of his hips, grinning further when her breath hitches and her face flushes. Peter watches as her pupils dilate and she licks her lips, a habit he knows she does unconsciously when nervous or aroused. “And this?” he asks, rocking up against her teasingly. “Do you remember this?”
> 
> She shakes her head, whining weakly in the back of her throat as she stares at him.
> 
> “That’s a shame,” he says, hands sliding down her hips to cup her ass, using his grip as leverage to pull her just that bit harder against him. “Do you want me to stop?”
> 
> She doesn’t answer, but her hands clench harder on his v-neck, and he can feel the way she starts rocking back against him, meeting his own thrusts half-way. The flush on her cheeks is spreading down her throat, disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt. He wants to see how far that pretty-pink flush will spread.
> 
> =
> 
> She whimpers as he rocks her that much harder against his cock. He feels deliciously thick and hard between her legs, and she wonders at how easy this is, to just let go and _feel_. Something tells her that it’s not supposed to be this easy, this good, not with _him_ , but that’s just a small voice in the back of her head. The larger part of her takes in his natural ease with her, the way he knows just how to rock her to supply sufficient friction to her clit, and the way she can tell he could seriously hurt her with the strength in his hands, and yet she doubts she’ll see a single bruise on her body once he’s done with her. She takes in his cocky smile, his hungry eyes, his teasing voice. She takes in the way his gaze lingers on her mouth, then her throat, and trails further down.
> 
> She doesn’t think twice before letting go of that ridiculous v-neck and grasping the hem of her shirt, pulling it up and over her head in one smooth, practiced movement. She hears the low growl he gives before she her head is clear of her shirt, a sound that is clearly inhumane, but it doesn’t frighten her. Indeed, judging by the way her stomach clenches and the rush of heat that suddenly floods her thighs, she thinks she rather enjoys it. She tosses the shirt over the side of the bed, reaches behind her and undoes the clasp of her bra. She can feel her own cocky grin stretching her face as she sees the way his eyes darken in hunger.
> 
> She may not remember much, may not be able to recall this man’s name or how she knows him, but she knows this is going to be _good_. This man beneath her will take her apart in all the best ways and maybe, if she’s lucky, he’ll even put her back together again. She tosses her bra in the same careless manner she did her shirt, then slowly drags her hands from her stomach and over her ribs, until she’s cupping her breasts, forefinger and thumb automatically coming together to play with her nipples.
> 
> =
> 
> Peter very nearly loses his control when Stiles strips for him. Never once does she lose the rhythm they set, rocking back eagerly and wantonly against his erection, head tilting back as she works her breasts, a soft moan escaping her mouth. He works her harder against his dick, unable to tear his gaze from her hands, from the blush that has spread across her breasts, from the flushed peaks of her nipples.
> 
> This is going too fast, much too fast, but damned if he isn’t going to take advantage of this. He swiftly flips them, enjoying the sharp gasp that Stiles gives out as their positions are abruptly switched. Her surprise doesn’t stop her from wrapping her legs around his waist, or winding her arms around his neck, grasping his hair and tugging him down. He eagerly returns her kiss, deepening it.
> 
> She writhes against him, trying to rut up against him, but he won’t allow it. He won’t be coming in his pants like a teenager, not tonight. He grasps her underwear in one hand and with a sharp tug, rips them clean off of her. He kisses follow the sharp curve of her jaw and down her throat as he turns his hands to his pajama-pants and withdrawing his cock, stroking the rigid flesh as he suckles bruises onto her throat.
> 
> “Please,” she whines, arching her back and tries to tug him down. Her nails dig into his back as she strains against his hold.
> 
> “Shhh, baby girl,” he soothes. “I’m not going to leave you hanging.” He strokes himself once more, then slips a hand between her spread thighs, a shudder working through him as he feels how wet she is, how hot and tight. He slips two fingers into her easily, involuntarily biting down on her collarbone as an obscene sound that should be made illegal slips from her throat. She works her hips, meeting the thrust of his fingers eagerly.
> 
> “Please, please,” she moans, clutching him closer.
> 
> And he can’t wait anymore. Needs to be inside her, needs to claim her, needs to make her his.
> 
> =
> 
> Stiles can’t believe how good this feels. Every move this man makes her arousal burn higher, tightening the coil in her stomach until she’s reduced to begging for his touch. She’s sure she’s never had him in her bed – in his bed? – before, because she can’t imagine how she would forget ever feeling like _this_.
> 
> His kisses against her throat, the constant rumbling growl that vibrates his entire body, the scent of him, heady and masculine, the firm thrusts of his fingers inside of her …she can’t imagine _how_ this could be any better, and yet she wants more, needs more. She needs his cock inside her, _needs_ to feel him filling her to the brim.
> 
> “Please,” she begs again, rutting against his fingers faster, squeezing her inner muscles as hard as she can. She hides her grin when he curses before biting her collarbone again sharply in retaliation. His fingers withdraw, and she knows, knows, that he’s going to do it, going to fill her just the way she wants, the way she needs.
> 
> “Yes, yes, yes,” she chants when she feels the head of his cock rub enticingly against her labia, lubricating it with her secretions, catching every now and then on her clit which sends electric , voice breathy and high and strange to her own ears, heart beating loudly enough that even she can hear it. “Please, oh, please,” she cries out, arching against him, nearly sobbing in relief when she feels the head finally press against her entrance and slowly press inside.
> 
> =
> 
> Oh, jesus, she’s tight. He shudders as he slides inside of her, knowing even as he does that he’s too close to the edge. This isn’t going to last long, much to his chagrin. He can already feel his knot forming around the base of his dick, his balls tightening in anticipation. “ _Christ_ ,” he murmurs against her throat, bottoming out and holding still, having to hold her hips to prevent her moving against him. He needs to hold on long enough to get her off first at least.
> 
> He pants, breathing in the scent of her, desperate and eager and _wanting_ , and curses again, involuntarily thrusting his hips. And he can’t stop, the slick drag of his cock as it moves in and out of her heaven and hell at the same time. Every moan that leaves her mouth, each enthusiastic churn of her hips during the brief seconds they’re completely joined together threatens to be the final nail in his coffin. Something resembling a sob escapes his own lips, because it has been too long since he’s fucked anything but his fist, and he’d never imagined this could feel this good, this _intense_. He unclasps a hand from her hips and reaches between them to rub his fingers against her clit.
> 
> It only takes a few swirls of his fingers before she arches against him, a high-pitched keening whine resounding through the bedroom as she stiffens, nails digging deep enough into his skin to draw blood, whole body shivering madly. He shudders against her, thrusts as deep as he can, and lets go, letting the tremors of her inner muscles milk his orgasm out of him, knot inflating swift to lock him inside of her.
> 
> She gasps and shudders at the sensation of that, whimpering at the forced stretch. He rubs his hands up and down her sides, even as he carefully rolls over, bringing her with him, settling her back on top of him.
> 
> =
> 
> Stiles whines in her throat, endorphins fading fast, leaving her with a stretched cunt that aches around the still very-hard cock she’s sitting on. She can feel the way it throbs inside of her, twitching every now and then with a burst of fresh heat against her walls. Christ, that’s….that’s…he’s _still_ coming. “What…?” is all she manages.
> 
> “It’s alright,” he says, voice deep and wrecked. “It’ll stop soon. You’re taking it very well.”
> 
> The praise makes something inside of her want to preen. She shoves the inclination aside, shuddering as she starts wiggling around a bit in order to try to make herself more comfortable, stilling immediately when a pained sound leaves the man’s throat. Stiles murmurs apologies. “What is your name, and what are you?” she asks once she’s settled.
> 
> “My name is Peter Hale, and I am a werewolf,” the man answers immediately.
> 
> “Oh.” She considers this, considers the pulsing in her core, the way she’s gradually coming to enjoy the sensation. “What does this mean? Or does this happen every time you fuck someone?”
> 
> He chuckles, the sound dark and slightly demented, and at the sound she immediately relaxes, much to her surprise. She immediately knows that _this_ is the man as she knew him _before_ , dark and definitely not sane, and that despite his inner darkness, he wouldn’t hurt her.
> 
> “Oh Stiles,” he practically purrs. “This means you’re mine.” A hand grasps the back of her neck, tightening until it lingers on the edge of actual pain, but never quite passing over. “There is no where you’ll be able to go where I can’t find you; no one will ever be able to take you away from me. You. Are. _Mine_.”
> 
> It is a promise, and a threat.
> 
> And she is strangely fine with that.


	12. Glory-hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asks are fun. XD

> He hears the man in the next stall opening his fly, getting ready to take a piss.
> 
> Stiles peeks through the glory-hole, trying to catch a glimpse. He may be here for one purpose, but he has standards, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to suck off a guy with a small dick. He’s discovered that he likes to choke himself on a nice thick cock, likes the feel of it twitching in his mouth as he swallows it down inch by inch. He likes hearing the men groan and whine as he teases the underside of the cock, tracing the thick vein underneath with his tongue before pulling back to suckle against the head.
> 
> Shit.
> 
> Now he’s hard, throbbing in his jeans at the merest thought of having a cock lodged deep in his throat. He angles his head slightly to the left, and catches sight of the man’s hands first.
> 
> And, _oh_.
> 
> _Hello_ kink he didn’t even know he had.
> 
> The man’s hands are … _well_. He’d never thought of hands that way before, but he sure as hell is now. This man’s hands are large and strong, fingers a little longer than average, but easily thick enough that Stiles can immediately imagine the burn as they stretch him open. They are powerful hands attached to powerful arms, rippling with muscles just barely visible beneath the nice button-down the man is wearing.
> 
> Stiles licks his lips, moving his head even further to catch a glimpse of the man’s cock, because he suddenly doesn’t even give a flying fuck about what size it is. He’s sucking this man off even if he has to get out of the stall and _ambush_ him. But the man’s cock doesn’t disappoint. It’s not super long or anything, being around six and a half inches - which is about average, but he’s thick. Very thick. Like, _soda_ - _can_ _dimensions_ thick. Stiles’ mouth waters, and he wonders to himself if he can even fit that in his mouth, let alone _choke_ himself on it. He licks his lips again, and gets into position, hands braced against the wall separating them, his knees kept off the dirty tiled floor by the pillow he so thoughtfully brought with him when he decided he was going to do this.
> 
> (No one ever looks down underneath the stall walls anyway, not in a man’s bathroom, not even in the gay club where every stall comes equipped with a glory-hole, so no one’s said anything about it yet.)
> 
> He clears his throat, opens his mouth, and waits. Sometimes the men don’t take the offer - they may be in a gay club, but glory-holes are _not_ everyone’s thing. And Stiles gets that, he does. He never pressures or wheedles or fake-cries for a cock in his mouth, no matter how badly he wants it. He just silently offers it, and lets the other make their own decisions.
> 
> The sound of urine slows to a light *plink plink* sound as the stream dies out, and there’s more rustling as the man starts to get himself situated. Stiles feels crushing disappointment. He had _really_ wanted that man’s cock in his mouth, wanted to hear that stranger loose his shit with Stiles’ mouth coaxing him through one orgasm straight into another. And another, if Stiles could get the man to stay that long. He sighs, and goes to pull away, but then there’s a finger pressed against his mouth.
> 
> Stiles can’t help it - it’s a Pavlovian response at this point. No one has ever lied when they said he had a major oral fixation. He does. _Boy_ does he ever. He suckled the man’s fingertips, laving them gently with his tongue, occasionally bringing his teeth out to play to teasingly nip.
> 
> "Such a prettty mouth," the man says softly, and that’s when Stiles’ heart just _stops_.
> 
> He doesn’t stop licking and suckling the man’s fingers, because he’s too turned on to stop, but he _knows_. _Oh, god_. He knows _exactly_ who is on the other side of the stall.
> 
> For a long, quiet moment, he wonders if _Peter fucking_ _Hale_ knows who is currently mouthing at his fingers, if he knows that Stiles is on his knees waiting for Peter to feed his thick cock into his mouth. Stiles wonders if Peter knows that just mere seconds ago, Stiles would have done anything and _everything_ to get his mouth around Peter’s dick. Knowing that the stranger in the stall next to him is _Peter_ doesn’t change this.
> 
> As a matter of fact, it makes him even more desperate to get his mouth on Peter’s dick.
> 
> He’s looked before.
> 
> Of course he has. He’s neither blind nor dead, and is in fact possessing of rather healthy hormones. He’s both cursed and thanked the gods every night since he first got caught up in all this werewolf-drama, because he’s constantly surrounded by the winning-tickets of the genetic lottery, and he _wants_.  
> 
> But that wanting gives him enough pause to think things through, to determine if he could continue with this and still be able to look Derek’s uncle in the eye the next day as if he hadn’t had his mouth wrapped around Peter’s dick, as if he hadn’t swallowed him whole and drank every drop of come he could coax out of Peter. He thinks about it for a long, long moment, long enough for Peter to remove his fingers and feed his half-hard dick through the whole, letting it bump against Stiles’ plush lips.
> 
> Stiles stops thinking right about then.
> 
> Peter hasn’t even _shaken_ his dick off, the head still dripping slightly with urine. It’s not exactly a turn-off for Stiles, but neither is it really a turn on. He’s never sucked a dick with urine still dripping from the head. And had this been another human, he still wouldn’t. But Stiles knows that werewolves can’t catch diseases, let alone spread them, so he decides what the hell, and tentatively licks against the head, determining whether or not the taste will be a deal-breaker.
> 
> It isn’t. It’s not particularly what he might call savory, but there’s something about the bitter taste that has him suckling gently as he tongues at the urethra.
> 
> Watersports are _definitely_ going on the ‘kink-yes’ list.
> 
> Peter groans a little as Stiles finally stops licking teasingly at the head and just goes for it, swallowing down Peter’s cock as he feeds even more of it through the glory-hole.
> 
> "Such a pretty mouth," Peter says again, almost wistfully. "I wasn’t going to do this." He says. "But your mouth, so sweet and cherry-red, just sitting there, just _begging_ for a cock to fill it. How could I resist?”
> 
> Stiles moans his agreement, sucks extra hard, fights a smile when Peter curses and thrusts his hips sharply, pressing as close as he can to the wall. Stiles chokes a little at the forceful push, but he’s successful in opening his throat up well enough to keep taking Peter in until he has as much of Peter’s cock as he’s going to get what with the wall between them. Peter makes this little chocking noise as he promptly discovers that Stiles really doesn’t have much of a gag-reflex. (Instead, Stiles thinks he might have the equivalent to a g-spot in the back of his throat, because nothing gets him off quicker than a cock lodged in his throat and twitching.
> 
> “ _Christ_ ,” Peter moans, finger s slipping through the hole in the wall to feel at his jaw.
> 
> And then Peter starts _talking_.
> 
> Stiles listens, heart beating faster with every word, because what Peter’s saying makes no sense at all, but makes all the sense in the world at the same time.
> 
> Because Peter’s talking about this kid who hangs around his nephew, about this kid’s mouth, and how this kid unknowingly keeps _tormenting_ him with popsicles and pens and god-knows what else. Peter talks about how this kid is such a perfect little cock-tease, and what he wouldn’t give to be able to crawl inside the kid and never leave.
> 
> And Stiles is a smart boy, a quick boy, mind going full-speed even when he’s gorging himself on cock.
> 
> Peter’s talking about _Stiles_. Peter _wants_ Stiles. Peter wants to _wreck_ Stiles.
> 
> And Stiles nearly gives the game up right then and there when he pulls off Peter’s dick, mouth opening to ask why the hell Peter hasn’t already done so. But he stops because Peter doesn’t know this is _him_. He doesn’t now that the mouth he’s currently fucking is the mouth he really wants, and Stiles….. _well_. He’s always been a curious little shit, and he kind of wants to know what _else_ Peter wants to do to him. So he licks at the head of Peter’s dick, clears his throat and speaks for the first time. His voice is wrecked, but he thanks his lucky stars that Peter’s too sex-stupid at the moment to recognize his voice, because while he doesn’t sound a damn thing like he has ever had before while around Peter, he still sounds like himself.
> 
> And he doesn’t want Peter to know it’s him. Not yet.
> 
> "Tell me more," he croaks out, throat throbbing as he speaks. "What do you want to do this kid? What gets you off?"
> 
> He sucks hard, as he wraps both hands around the thick cock, jacking it slowly so that he can listen to Peter’s words. And _Christ_ , is Peter a dirty fucker. Stiles would bet a thousand dollars that the things that leaves his mouth would scare the bejeezus out of regular, non-supernatural aware people. Because the thing is that none of what Peter wants to do to him would make any sense to someone who didn’t know that Peter is a semi-psychotic former-alpha werewolf. And unfortunately, while Peter is no longer an alpha, he still has all of the _instincts_.
> 
> Peter lucks out in one thing though: the more he speaks, the more turned on Stiles gets, because while he’s never thought about half the shit Peter wants, he suddenly can’t wait to try.
> 
> And Peter’s obviously enjoying the chance to get this off his chest, because he’s leaking like a fucking faucet, dick twitching with every word that leaves his mouth, hips jerking sharply the closer he gets to his release. And Stiles sucks harder, fists the cock in his hands quicker, tickling his tongue against the underside of Peter’s cock as if encouragement. Peter finally trails off into a deep, drawn out groan, and the second the first spurt of come hits his tongue, Stiles is shuddering through his own orgasm. He drinks Peter’s release down, spurt after spurt, then tenderly licks at the softening penis in his mouth until Peter finally hisses and draws back.
> 
> Stiles smiles. “So,” he says after a moment spent listening to Peter’s heavy breathing as the man tries to regain his control. “About some of that stuff you mentioned,” and his grin grows wicked and terrible when he hears the sharp intake of air as Peter, finally starting to get his wits back about him, is finally able to recognize Stiles’ voice, wrecked though it may be.
> 
> “I’m not averse to trying a few of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always taking Peter/Stiles prompts on my [Tumblr](http://labtrinthine.tumblr.com/), though I should warn you, I'm a pretty slow writer. XD Feel free to hit me up!
> 
> Also: I'm kind of tied up with personal matters right now, so my writing is even slower than ever. I should be firmly back into the swing of things by mid-February.


	13. Peter/Stiles/Derek. AU. Cuckold Prompt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Peter/Stiles, Derek/Stiles, Mind Control/Hypnosis, Infidelity/Cuckold. Full prompt here: tnw-kinkmeme(.)livejournal(.)com/4905(.)html?thread=564521
> 
> That prompt:  
> "I want Derek and Stiles as a couple or even mates and Peter uses some form of mind control/hypnosis to make Stiles hot and horny for him.  
> He can MC Derek as well.
> 
> He makes it so that Stiles wants to cheat on Derek with Peter and Derek knows about it but can't help but let it happen. Maybe he makes Derek think that he is the Pack Stud and its his duty and not the Alpha's to breed Stiles.
> 
> I want dirty talk and slut shaming. Comments about how much bigger Peters dick is than Derek's. How he's a way better fuck. Maybe Peter changed their memories so Stiles thinks that Derek was never able to satisfy him sexually/never even orgasmed and always ended up having to finish himself off.
> 
> Want Derek turned on and humiliated."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so dirtybadwrong. I can’t believe I wrote this. God I enjoyed writing this. There’s some elements that were a little different from the original prompt b/c I couldn’t get the entirety of this out without at least a little angst, and I’m sorry. But everyone is satisfied and wanting more at the end. And Stiles totally ran with being mind-controlled, btw. He took every dirty thought Peter subtly implanted and took it to an eleven right off the bat.
> 
> Warnings: EXTREME NSFW, bdsm, forced mating, not sane safe and consensual, barely any consent seen anywhere in this prompt fill (unless you count EXTREME DUBIOUS CONSENT as consent), toys, nipple clamps, dildo-gags, butt plugs, Peter being Peter, mind fuck, bondage, sounding, edge play, breeding kink, dirty talk, begging, mates, knotting, stealing mates, BAMF!Stiles, alternate universe - everything after Season 1 doesn’t exist (although some elements were taken from season 2), underage sex, bare-backing, MENTIONS OF: enforced male chastity, come inflation, incest, come swallowing/eating, felching.

> When Peter raises himself from the dead, he has two plans for his immediate future: become the alpha again, and claim Stiles. Permanently, and fuck giving the boy a choice this time. He’s learned his lesson: Stiles is just as dangerous as Peter is, just as feral in his need to protect those he thinks of as his, and Peter isn’t going to suffer being burned alive for the third time in his life.
> 
> Twice was _more_ than enough, thank you very fucking much.
> 
> It only takes him a day and a half to realize he’s too late. Derek went ahead and claimed the boy first, as Peter unfortunately finds out when he watches Derek slam the human into a wall and proceed to _try_ and fuck his brains out.
> 
> Jealousy boils deep and dark within Peter’s heart, and the monster he’s barely managed to contain after four months spent rotting in the ground prowls beneath his skin. It is the monster in him that remembers that night in the school, how the boy had trapped him and dared mock him; it is the monster in him that remembers the night in the garage, holding the boys wrist to his mouth and drowning in the combined scents of fear and arousal. It is the monster in him that knows that Stiles is _his_ , no matter who else claims him, and if he has to rid himself of the last of his living blood-kin to get the boy, _well_.
> 
> He’s never really had a problem with fratricide.
> 
> Peter watches Derek and Stiles for several weeks, watches the way Derek takes and takes and Stiles gives and gives, and never, ever gets much back. Derek doesn’t text, doesn’t write, doesn’t talk. He doesn’t take Stiles apart slowly or with much skill, only preps the poor boy just enough not to tear him when he slams home, and usually leaves Stiles to see about getting himself off – usually with a quick hand-job as Derek’s still coming deep within.
> 
> It’s pathetic, is what it is. And Peter wants to punish Derek for taking what isn’t his and not even treating the boy right, but he also kind of wants to teach Derek how to _really_ fuck someone like Stiles, who is beautifully submissive even when his dominant partner clearly doesn’t know what to do with him.
> 
> They’re little ‘relationship’ seems to be enough for Stiles, but Peter knows _he_ could do much better than Derek. In fact, he bets that he could have Stiles falling apart ever-so-prettily without even having to touch the boy. All he would need is his words and the right atmosphere, and for Stiles to have the right mindset.
> 
> And that’s when the monster in his head realizes what he needs to do. He won’t need to kill Derek to punish him, won’t need to kill Derek to reclaim what’s been his since the day he caught a whiff of that heady scent of fear and lust. All he needs is some time, and the judicious application of a few altered memories.
> 
> =
> 
> He takes Derek first. Carefully whips up a concoction of wolfsbane and water in a spray bottle, not potent enough to do any real damage, but strong enough to knock an alpha out for a few hours. Peter waits, lingering in the peripherals of Derek’s senses, driving his wayward nephew mad with the rising instinct to find and catch the omega in his territory. And Peter is an omega now, but he won’t be for much longer. Soon he’ll be joined to the alpha’s mate, and through him to the alpha himself. It’s not the same as being an alpha, not by any stretch of the imagination, but in some ways it’s better.
> 
> No one looks for the power behind the throne when it comes time to start beheading people, after all. The King gets the chop, and the voice that whispered in the ear slides into the background, never to be seen or heard or remembered. Peter thinks he could do quite well in that position, whispering advice and poison both in Derek’s ear as he fucks his nephew’s mate into a whimpering stupor that practically begs for Peter to mate him again and again.
> 
> He ties up Derek securely, and settles behind him, claws extending as he focuses on what he wants, what he needs. He slips his claws into his nephew’s spinal cord, and concentrates. It’s not exactly a precise art, what he’s doing, but he’s always been gifted in the mental arts. Far more gifted that he should be, considering that this is typically a gift limited to alpha’s, and Peter’s not an alpha. But he was, once, and he had been skilled at this long before becoming one. Being an alpha only enhanced that skill, left him with an instinctive understanding of things that had always eluded him before, and even though he’s not an alpha, he still remembers.
> 
> He lets Derek’s thoughts and memories flow through him, learns what he can about what’s been going on in Beacon Hills since he died (not a lot, thankfully), about how this thing with Stiles started (the very night Peter burned again, the new alpha displeased with the lingering scent of Peter’s pheromones all over Stiles), about how far he’d need to push to break Derek into something he could mold back together as he saw fit.
> 
> Not much, actually. Derek is mostly broken already, torn between his desire for Stiles’ sweet, tight ass and the need to dominate the mouthy teen, and the absolute disgust about becoming just another Kate, ruining the teenager, tainting Stiles with his emotionally stunted bullshit. Derek knows he isn’t in the right headspace for a real relationship, but mated the boy anyway, unable to deny the claim and unwilling to let the boy go, as Peter had.
> 
> And above all things, his nephew is drowning in his self-loathing, because Stiles told Derek about the garage, told him all about the pull he felt towards Peter, how if it hadn’t been for Scott, Stiles would have let Peter do it, would have let the psychopathic alpha claim him then and there. The memory intrigues Peter, and he prods at it, lets the entirety of it wash over his senses, studying it from every angle while ignoring the rush of Derek’s emotions. Stiles was angry, bitter, and wanted to hurt Derek. It’s in his body posture, his scent, the way his eyes never leave Derek’s as he spits out words Peter knows the boy never intended for Peter to hear.
> 
> Stiles had wanted to hurt Derek, because Derek couldn’t give him what he wanted, and Stiles had just learned the extent of what Derek had done, what he’d forced Stiles into. And Stiles – clever, ruthless, not-afraid-to-fight-dirty Stiles – had nailed it perfectly in how to do so.
> 
> _“He knew, Derek. He **knew** I was lying through my teeth when I told him I didn’t want it, didn’t want him, and you know what he did, Derek? You know what he did? He didn’t **force** me. He didn’t hurt me or punish me. He **walked away**. He let me have my choice, and though it wasn’t what he wanted to hear or even what I really wanted, he respected that choice and **honored** it.”_
> 
> Peter hums in satisfaction, because Stiles has done most of his work for him, and slowly plants his own seeds within Derek’s mind. He plants the lingering need for family, dulls the harsh feelings of hate Derek feels towards him, grows the inherent need an alpha feels to provide for his or her mate, introduces the idea that providing for a mate’s happiness may mean stepping aside and letting their mate be fucked by someone else. And then he erases Derek’s memories of the past 2 hours, wiping all traces of Peter’s most recent act of betrayal out of the alpha’s mind. Carefully he slips out of Derek’s thoughts, slips his claws out of Derek’s neck, unties his nephew, and leaves.
> 
> He’s got work to do, because despite what he may have said to Derek, Peter knows things will never be that easy as far as Stiles is concerned.
> 
> =
> 
> He stalks Stiles for another month, learning his patterns, watching the inevitable breakdown of Derek and Stiles’ relationship. They bicker more and more often, the sex growing more and more violent, as Derek’s paranoia and shame grow with each instance of Stiles not behaving as a happy mate should. And really, what does Derek expect? Stiles is as far from happy as any mate could be, with a mate who can’t even please him sexually let alone take an interest in his life long enough to know he’s unbearably lonely.
> 
> Part of Peter contemplates letting things go on for even longer, in order to punish the boy who dared set him on fire, again, but quickly dismisses it. If he lets things go on too much longer, there’s a very real chance Derek might accidentally kill Stiles, or at least majorly hurt him in ways that can’t be easily repaired.
> 
> So he takes Stiles next. Sneaks up behind him and slams the boy’s head just hard enough against the door to his jeep to knock the boy out instantly. He wastes no time, heading immediately to the little loft his nephew bought, knowing Derek won’t come back until at least midnight, which gives him six hours alone with Stiles.
> 
> It is more than enough time.
> 
> He’s even more careful about slipping his claws into Stiles’ fragile flesh, gently connecting with the boy’s thoughts and memories and emotions. He inches in slowly, like poison mist seeping beneath the bottom of a locked door, finding every nook and cranny he can seep his own agenda into.
> 
> Stiles’ mind is fascinating. And Peter is right. The boy is just as much a monster as he is, just as dangerous, just as deadly. It’s just a matter of his father’s lingering moral code and inexperience that holds Stiles back, but once he breaks free, Peter knows Stiles will be something beautiful. He twists a few memories, enhances a few emotions, alters a few dreams the boy had. He weaves hate with the boy’s frustration with Derek, plants the idea of forcing Derek to watch as Stiles fucks someone else right in front of the alpha, showing Derek exactly what it takes to get him off and how Derek will never be able to fulfill his needs.
> 
> He dulls the fear the boy still fears at the mere thought of him, and enhances the lust. Not enough to truly alter that heady scent, because he wants Stiles to fear him, just a little. His last little trick is a completely forged memory that he pushes into the fore-front of Stiles’ mind. This memory won’t stand up long to close examination, is so full of little holes and missing senses that Peter is actually kind of ashamed of it, but it’ll get the job done. He only needs Stiles to believe in it long enough to get his own knot in the boy’s ass, after all.
> 
> He grins as he slips out of Stiles’ mind.
> 
> He keeps grinning as he strips the boy of his clothes, and then reaches into his bag and pulls out a few toys he brought especially for this very purpose.
> 
> =
> 
> It takes Stiles three hours to come out of unconsciousness, and by that point, Peter’s already gotten him completely trussed up and decked out. Pretty little clamps are attached to the boy’s pouty little nipples, connected by a thin chain that’s attached to the thick leather collar Peter has wrapped around the boy’s vulnerable throat. Tiny little bells hang off the clamps, jingling merrily in time with the boy’s unconscious groaning. There is another chain, attached to the very center of the first, gleaming brightly against the paleness of Stiles’ skin.
> 
> Peter’s grin is wicked as his gaze travels follows the chain down to observe the rest of his handiwork. The chain is attached at two points to the boy’s hard erection: the first at the base of his cock, where Peter’s slipped on a cockring, and the second at the head of the sound Peter has ever so very carefully worked into the boy’s urethra. Each movement of the boy’s body tugs at the chains, working the sound in and out of the boy’s cock, practically fucking him with it the more Stiles awakens and struggles harder.
> 
> Did Peter forget to mention the ropes he has bound Stiles with? Stiles’ hands are tied behind his back, the rope looped around the base of the thick plug Peter worked into him, and every tug and wiggle of his hands works that toy in and out of him too. Stiles’ eyes finally open, amber irises completely out of focus, blush high and deep as the arousal sets in deep before he can even really process anything else. He can’t speak around the small dildo Peter gagged him with, but he can certainly emote.
> 
> And he’s emoting big-time right now. Peter breathes in the scent of desperation and need, hears the up-kick of the boy’s heart as the sensations begin to become too intense, and smiles. “Go ahead and struggle, darling,” he purrs from his place on Derek’s couch. His cock is hard and firm within the confines of his jeans, but he doesn’t touch it, not even to adjust himself. He’s going to wait until Derek gets here, and he’s going to make his nephew do it, make his nephew strip him and beg him to fuck his wanting mate.
> 
> And he’s going to enjoy every moment of it.
> 
> =
> 
> It only takes an hour for Stiles to sob around his gag and slump against the pole he’s tied to, unable to keep balanced as his body shudders through denied orgasm after denied orgasm. He makes little begging noises in his throat, eyes locked on Peter, silently begging him to give him some sort of relief.
> 
> Peter simply smiles at him, a wicked thing with too many teeth, and taps his fingertips along his thigh.
> 
> But Stiles doesn’t cry or whimper of beg anew the way Peter expects him to. Instead, Stiles arches his head, keening as the leather collar tugs on all the delicate chains, bearing his vulnerable throat to Peter’s hungry gaze. Stiles sucks hard on his gag, cheeks hollowing from the force he applies, and always, always keeps his gaze locked on Peter. The longer Peter makes no move, the more the submissive neediness fades from that direct stare and becomes more of an angry challenge. _‘Just like Derek, aren’t you?’_ he can practically hear the boy thinking. _‘Leaving me begging and desperate with no relief but that which I provide for myself.’_
> 
> And that’s not something Peter wants in Stiles’ head, not even for a second, because in order for this to work just right, Stiles has to want him, has to need him. With a low growl, he gets off the couch, filing his plans for Derek for another day, working the zipper of his jeans as he practically stalks closer to his boy.
> 
> Stiles watches him, still suckling his gag, gaze too intense, too fierce. He’s working his entire body now, fucking himself on all three ends, and each little moan and whimper he gives off is a direct challenge to Peter _. ‘Prove me wrong,’_ Stiles says without saying a single word, and Peter sets out to do just that.
> 
> First he unbinds Stiles’ wrist and then works the plug out of him, gaze hungry and dick twitching as he watches the boy’s greedy little hole stretch around the wide rim of the plug. It’s much thicker than his cock is, but smaller than his knot, so he doesn’t even feel remotely sorry about the time it took to stretch the boy without tearing him before slipping it in. He sits on the floor and drags Stiles back onto his lap, slipping in a finger to ensure the boy is still well lubricated before pulling the boy onto his erection, not even bothering to take off his jeans or even unbind Stiles’ angry-looking cock or nipples.
> 
> Peter sets a slow, but rough pace, hands on the boys hips to push and pull Stiles so that he can withdraw until only the head of his cock is within that slick heat before slamming the boy back down and grinding against the boy’s prostate. Over and over and over he thrusts inside the boy, before he reaches around and tugs the dildo out of Stiles’ mouth. The air is instantly filled with the sounds of Stiles, moaning with every slow drag out and punched-out breathy little gasps on the sharp thrusts in. The boy rocks his hips back against Peter, hands clenching tight against Peter’s grip on his hips, writhing in a way that tugs at his nipple clamps and his sound, working himself as much as Peter’s working him.
> 
> It is unbearably erotic, and Peter loses himself in Stiles, in the feel of him tightening and spasming around him with every orgasm he’s denied do to the cockring and sound, in the scent of his need and want, in those gloriously should-be-made illegal noises that leaves the boy’s swollen lips. It is, then, completely understandable that Peter doesn’t even notice when Derek storms into the loft.
> 
> He doesn’t, not at first, but Stiles does.
> 
> Stiles doesn’t falter, doesn’t stop. He moans a little louder, works himself a little harder, never once reaches for his dick the way he does when Derek’s the one that fucks him. He lets his eyes meet Derek’s, lets an absolutely filthy grin cross his lips as his cock-sucking lips open and the filthiest words either Hale men have ever heard spills like water.
> 
> “Please, Peter, fuck me good, fuck me hard, fill me just the way I want, the way I need. I don’t want to be able to sit for days without thinking about your hard cock pounding away at me. Knot me, come in me for hours until my stomach is bloated with your seed. I bet you wish I was a girl, don’t you, with a nice cunt you could breed full of your children. Come on Peter, fuck me hard enough to make me come, even with the cockring and the sound you put on me, fuck me hard enough to make me come without even once touching my dick. Come on, baby, show your nephew what a mate really does for his partner.”
> 
> And it’s only with that last line, with the sharp whimpering whine that Derek gives off, that Peter even realizes Derek’s in the room, watching them. Watching Peter fuck his mate, watching Stiles not only take it, but beg for more, beg for Peter’s _knot_ , begged to be fucked hard enough that Peter won’t need to release the boy’s bound dick, because Stiles will come anyway.
> 
> And Peter’s always loved a good challenge.
> 
> He pulls Stiles completely off his cock and turns him so that he can see the boy’s face as he shoves him onto the floor and settles himself back between the boy’s eagerly opening legs. He slides his hands under Stiles’ ass and tilts the boys hips up, thrusting back in easily with a sharp snap of his hips. Stiles winds his long legs around Peter’s hips, uses that as leverage to work his own hips to meet Peter thrust for thust, hands clenched on Peter’s arms, nails digging in hard enough to draw blood.
> 
> “That’s it Peter, fuck me. Fuck me good and hard and make Derek watch. Make him see what I want, what I need. God you’re so big, stretching me so good. You’re so much bigger than Derek; I can’t wait to feel your knot. You’re going to knot me, right? Going to stretch me wide and keep me tethered to you for hours? Bet you I could keep your dick hard inside of me for hours, keep your knot inflated inside of me until you’re begging me to stop moving on you.”
> 
> Peter swears as he thrusts harder, knot already beginning to swell, Derek’s sub-audial whimpering creating the perfect background for Stiles’ unexpectedly arousing dirty talk. Stiles cries out as he finally orgasms, cock pulsing strongly as his sound practically rockets out of his slit, come splattering over the both of them like a brand. And even as his body spasms in the aftershocks, Stiles just keeps on going, grip dragging Peter down so that Stiles’ mouth is directly against Peter’s ear, whispering words the boy knows full well Derek can still hear. Peter wonders where this all came from, because not all of it was what he implanted in Stiles’ head.
> 
> “Maybe after we’re done I’ll make Derek clean us both with his tongue, apologize for taking me without either of our permission by sucking your seed out of my abused ass, force him to drink every last drop and then suckle your come off your spent dick. How ‘bout it Peter?”
> 
> And the idea, the mere thought of punishing Derek that way, is what does it for him. He pushes in until he can’t get any farther and feels his knot inflate quickly, too quickly. He pants for air as his orgasm is practically ripped out of him, like Stiles’ ass is tugging his soul right through his cock. It’s never been this intense before, not ever, though admittedly he’s never knotted someone he wanted to mate, either. He clings to Stiles, breath hitching with every spasm of Stiles’ ass against his over-sensitive cock, whimpering as Stiles just does what he does best and _keeps on talking_.
> 
> “Should we cage that little dick of his so that he can never get hard again, never threaten to claim what isn’t his ever again? Bet we could get a sound with a through-hole so that we’d never have to uncage him, either. No matter how hard he begged – and he would beg, wouldn’t he Peter? He’d beg for the chance to be able to get hard and come, no matter how it happened. I bet he’d be glad to ride your cock or mine, submit to one of us like he _isn’t_ the alpha just so that he could get off. I bet he’d look pretty, forced to take a knot, wouldn’t he Peter?”
> 
> And Peter shudders into another orgasm, filling Stiles even more, too turned on to do much more than gasp at the images Stiles was putting into his own mind, things he’d never contemplated, but isn’t too far of a stretch, because he’s a monster and damn proud of it, and has no hang-ups about fucking kin.
> 
> =
> 
> It’s not what Peter imagined, fucking around with Derek’s and Stiles’ head. It’s not nearly what he thought it would be. Stiles, after Peter is done with him, is even _more_ perfect that he could ever have imagined, capable of dominating and submitting in equal measure, beautiful and terrifying in all the same breath. He is so good for Peter, takes whatever Peter gives him whenever Peter wants.
> 
> He is also the Lord and Master of Derek’s world now, and not even Peter can make Stiles concede control over Derek, no matter how hard he tries. He controls when Peter’s nephew comes, if the man comes at all. And the things Stiles can make Derek willingly submit to in order to get the possibility of a _chance_ to have a release never fails to get Peter off, so he stops trying to wrest control over his nephew from Stiles very early on.
> 
> It’s not quite the power trip of being the alpha, but, in a way, it’s so much _better_. It’s sure as hell a lot of fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always taking Peter/Stiles prompts on my [Tumblr](http://labtrinthine.tumblr.com/), though I should warn you, I'm a pretty slow writer. XD Feel free to hit me up!
> 
> Also: I'm kind of tied up with personal matters right now, so my writing is even slower than ever. I should be firmly back into the swing of things by mid-February.


	14. Act of War (Lines in the Sand)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a prompt, but an extreme rough-draft I'm offering up to anyone who wants to breathe true life into it. Or whoever gets inspired by it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an alternate 3b, where there is no such thing as a Nogitsune, but rule63!Stiles is suffering the “darkness” a little worse than all the others. (Also, I jumped on the torture!bandwagon in regards to what Gerard did to Stiles in the basement. Sorrynotsorry.) And, Allison and Lydia are most likely extremely OOC in this.
> 
> Like I said, this is a quick little fic-let, and should only be considered a rough-draft at best. If I do make a real fic out of this, rest assured that I would go back and fix characterization!
> 
> Warnings: Peter’s an asshole, and creepy, Gerard - enough said there, death threats, ooc characters. Mentioned: rape, torture, death, blackmail. If there’s anything I missed, please let me know!

“Try _harder!_ ” Peter snarls, grabbing Lydia by the arms and shaking her. Her pale skin is already starting to bruise beneath the strength of his grip, and for a brief moment, he feels mildly disgusted with himself for hurting her again. But he _needs_ that information, he needs to know what memory Talia had stolen from him. And if that means he needs to hurt Lydia again, then he _will_ hurt her.

And then there’s an Argent custom-built high-powered taser resting next to his cheek, sparking. He releases Lydia, rolling his eyes as he breathes deeply for a moment. “Your aunt had one of those,” he drawls, meeting the baby-Argent’s eyes, smiling faintly because she may be an Argent, may be just as bug-nuts as the rest of her family, but she’s no _Kate_. Kate had been a _monster_ ; Allison was a mere kitten in comparison.

Peter’s already killed Kate. He has no doubt he could take this Argent as well.

“Stop it,” Lydia says, backing away.

Neither listen. Allison’s gaze is steady, but her hand trembles just a little.

“Aunty Kate,” he continues, letting his eyes gleam beneath the force of his wolf. “It didn’t do her much good as I ripped out her throat, now did it?”

Allison flinches.

And Peter knows immediately he crossed some hidden line – her entire face hardens even as her eyes gleam with a bloody anticipation. “She didn’t shove it up your – ”

The sound of a shotgun pumping is obscenely loud.

All three of them still, Allison and Lydia sharing a confused glance before turning, revealing to Peter the hottest sight he’s ever seen.

Stiles is standing in the doorway of the loft, shotgun aimed at Allison. There’s a dark storm brewing in her amber eyes, something almost like hatred gleaming bright. Her stance is settled and the steadiness of her hands and aim suggest long hours of practice. There is a small splash of drying blood splattered on her red hoodie, but Peter doubts the other two girls could see it.

“Drop the cattle-prod, Argent,” Stiles says, and her voice is just as steady as her stance, just as firm. And cold.

Lydia inches closer to Allison, but aside from Stiles’ eyes flickering to her briefly, Stiles’ attention remains firm on Allison. “Stiles, what are you _doing?_ ”

“Oh, a great many things lately,” the girl answers with a sharp, feral grin. “Most recently I’ve been settling a few debts.” Her grin widens. “If you don’t drop the cattle-prod, I’ll be settling another one.”

Allison’s brow furrows, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.

“Stiles?” Lydia asks again.

“Oh, she knows what I’m talking about, don’t you, Argent?” Her finger twitches against the trigger. “Tell me, did it _excite_ you, watching your grandfather exert his superiority on innocent teenagers?”

“I - I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Peter immediately hears the tell-tale flutter in the girl’s heart. Argent did know. He eyes the three girls, curious, wondering what exactly Stiles was talking about, what sin the baby-Argent had committed that could be so bad as to warrant death, even when Stiles knew said death would be the final nail in the coffin of her deteriorating relationship with Scott.

“Of course you do,” Stiles murmurs. “I saw you, peaking around the corner as Erica and Boyd screamed from the electrical current. I heard you, breathing hard as your precious grandfather beat me down and told me that if it weren’t for my usefulness as a _living_ message, he would have no qualms killing me. I saw _you_ , saw those pretty, doe-like eyes reflected in the metal of the filing cabinets when he broke my ribs, when he fractured my pelvis, when he held me down and took from me _everything_.”

And Peter forgets to breathe for a long, long moment. He’s an intelligent man, a quick one, and he has no real morals to hinder him. Although it is clear Stiles can’t bring herself to actually say the words, Peter knows immediately what Gerard did, what he stole from the girl. There are no words for how unsettled this makes him, how badly he wants to rip and tear and rend the world at large, because there are few people in the world like Stiles Stilinski, ferocious and loyal and so damn alive: that someone had dared try and smother that boundless energy so brutally leaves him breathless and wordless in his rage.

And as if in answer to his own growing bloodlust, Stiles is no longer smiling. Her own hatred, her remembered pain and fear, _her_ rage: all of it has settled on her face, twisting her otherwise pretty features into something terrifying.

Peter has always known that there is a darkness within Stiles. He has always known that when pushed far enough, the damage Stiles could do would be _horrific_. It was one of the main reasons he’d offered her the Bite, so long ago. It’s also the main reason he’d respected her refusal. Stiles is like him, dangerous and ruthless and borderline sociopathic – their only difference is that Stiles has carefully tethered herself to the most morally bland person Peter has ever had the misfortune to meet.

Only, now, it looks like that tether no longer a viable option. And considering what he now knows, he understands why Stiles has been drawing away from Scott, even if it means she’s more alone and vulnerable than she’s ever been.

And Peter eyes the blood on Stiles’ hoody, and wonders if maybe that tether hasn’t already been severed. “You killed him, didn’t you?”

His words freeze all of them.

Lydia’s gaze darts between Allison and Peter and Stiles, and there is nothing that can possibly hide her building panic. Allison’s gaze doesn’t leave Stiles, just as her hand does not remove the taser from the general vicinity of Peter’s face. Stiles’ gaze flickers to Peter, assesses him quickly, before settling firmly back on Allison.

“Like I said, I had a debt to pay.” She pumps the shotgun again, a motion that is completely unnecessary, but also one that gets her point across. “As Peter here has so thoughtfully pointed out, I’ve already killed one Argent today; I have no qualms about taking down another.” Her eyes narrow. “Drop. The. Weapon.”

Allison, wisely, drops the taser. Peter takes the opportunity to step around the two teenagers, focused on the real prize. Stiles’ gaze again flickers to him, but otherwise she doesn’t react to his approach. The closer he gets, the more he can smell the anxiety and eagerness and sheer fucking _fury_ the teenager is practically radiating. But she pays him no real mind, not even once twitching as if to keep him in her sight, not even when he stands at her back.

In fact, he’s slightly surprised to note that as soon as he’s behind her, close enough that she could surely feel his body heat, she relaxes slightly, leaning subconsciously back as if to get closer.

She _trusts_ him.

His mind quickens to overdrive, plan after plan working through his thoughts as he contemplates how best to use this.

“Why are you doing this?” Lydia’s voice is small, and she’s tucked herself against Allison.

Stiles spares a glance to Lydia, and her face flickers briefly with regret and pity. “Why don’t you go ask Chris, Lydia? Get all the impartial details about what condition I left the Argent house in? And tell him if he doesn’t tell you the truth, my dad has all the evidence we need to see him and his lovely daughter in jail for the next fifty years or so, and the statute of limitations has not even _begun_ to run out.”

Allison snarls, and storms out, Lydia following after slowly, reluctantly.

Peter grasps Stiles’ shoulder.

And Lydia, lingering in the door, obviously wary about leaving her friend with the man who had tormented her for weeks, asks quietly: “You trust him?”

And at that Stiles pauses, stares at the hand Peter has settled on her shoulder, looking for the first time this entire night lost and unsure. She breathes in unsteadily, before sighing and meeting Lydia’s regard once more. “Of everyone I’ve met so far in my seventeen years of life, he is the only one who’s ever respected my decision to say no and _listened_ , even when his supernatural senses told him I was lying.”

And Lydia, of all people, knows what means to Stiles, why that one attribute above all others is so important. She nods once, slowly, and then follows her best friend out of the loft.

It is a severance, Peter understands, clean and true.

And Peter is just the opportunistic man to take full advantage of it. He draws in his little spark, pulling the teenager flush against his body, securely wrapping his arms around her. She goes easily, dropping the shotgun, shuddering as she takes in one shaky breath after another, face buried in his v-neck. He smells tears.

“Don’t hurt me,” she mumbles into his shirt. “Please, don’t ever hurt me.”

“Never,” he promises.

It’s an easy promise to make. He has no _need_ to hurt her, and no _desire_ to do so either. Others, yes, but not her. She’s _his_ now, for as long as he can keep her.

And he’s always been rather protective of what’s his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always taking Peter/Stiles prompts on my [Tumblr](http://labtrinthine.tumblr.com/), though I should warn you, I'm a pretty slow writer. XD Feel free to hit me up!
> 
> Also: I'm kind of tied up with personal matters right now, so my writing is even slower than ever. I should be firmly back into the swing of things by mid-February.


	15. Garage Scene Remix, take 4000

 

> **Anonymous asked: garage scene remix - Stiles gets bent over the nurses trunk, and much porn happens.**

 

**Warnings: Underage sex, some non-con/rape elements (but nothing triggery, I think), xenophilia/bestiality (a.k.a alpha!form sex), non-consensual biting.**

 

> “I can be very … _persuasive_ , Stiles,” Peter Hale murmurs in her ear, his warm breath ghosting at the side of her jaw, his hand a strong but gentle pressure on the back of her neck. “Don’t make me persuade you.”
> 
>   
>  And she should be scared. Should be _terrified_ , really, but she’s not. She’s also not stupid, and the very last thing she should do is arch her back and press against him as much as their positioning will allow her and beg him with a soft and breathy ‘ _please_.’ But she does it anyway, heart in her throat and heat pooling in her gut, bent over the trunk of a car with a dead corpse inside of it, and she thinks she may have lost her mind, but she also doesn’t _care_.
> 
>   
>  See the thing is, she remembers the way the nurse had looked at her, the way she moved towards Stiles with intent to harm, and the way Peter had started to move as if to intercept her. 
> 
>   
>  She remembers the way he’d looked at her that evening in the hospital, with eyes bright and curious, that little half-smirk pulling at his lips. The way her chosen name had rolled off his tongue.
> 
>   
>  She remembers the chase through the school, the large, monstrous creature that intimidated and frightened and chased but never once hurt her – despite how easy it really would have been.
> 
>   
>  She remembers the way she hadn’t been able to simply run away once she’d trapped him, however briefly; how she’d been drawn to look at him, to see him for what he was.
> 
>   
>  And she _is_ drawn to him, in more ways than is healthy or sane. Stiles wants things that any reasonable person would shy away from, especially considering she wants them from _Peter Hale_ of all people, but she’s never claimed to be sane or reasonable. So she _does_ arch her back and press against him as much as their positioning will allow. She _does_ let that small, breathy ‘ _please_ ’ leave her lips.
> 
>   
>  There is a moment of stillness as Peter remains bent over her, hand secured against her neck. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t even breathe, and for that moment, she fears she’s done something monumentally stupid.
> 
>   
>  And then he tucks his nose against the underside of her ear and inhales, and a low, rumbling growl so deep she can feel it vibrating against her back even if she can’t actually hear it escapes him almost immediately after. Peter casually flips her around, seating her on the trunk and swiftly stepping between the spread v of her legs. Her arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders, hands tentatively beginning to play with the ends of his hair near the base of his neck, even as both of his hands cup her face and force her to look him in his eyes.
> 
>   
>  He studies her for several moments. “You feel it too?” he questions, and she doesn’t know what draw or pull the alpha could possibly feel for a scrawny, under-developed sixteen-year-old with ADHD and more sarcasm than she knows what to do with, but she definitely feels _something_. 
> 
>   
>  Even though most of her common sense is screaming at her to get the hell out of here, to not be so stupid as to give Peter any kind of submission, that nameless something inside of her is telling her that if she does not act now, if she doesn’t let this happen, she will regret it for the rest of her life. And Stiles has _never_ been about delayed gratification, or patience, or denying herself things she desperately wants, no matter what legalities stood in her way.
> 
>   
>  In that, perhaps, her and Peter are ideally, monstrously, matched. 
> 
>   
>  “ _Yes_ ,” she tells him.
> 
>   
>  What follows is a blur of sensation and ripped clothing, of bruising grips and claiming kisses, of sweet, passionate moans and deep groans, and then somehow they’re both in back of her jeep, both naked as the day they were born, her riding him like it was the last thing she’d ever do. His hands are on her hips helping her to keep the pace, his mouth latched onto one of her perpetually perky tits, tongue doing wicked things to the taut flesh even as he suckles. They are both sweaty and every move they make creates a squelching sound as his thick, grown-man’s cock cores out a place inside of her just for him, and she fucking  _loves_ it. She feels the prick of growing claws against the flesh on her hips, feels the bite of wickedly sharp teeth against the flesh of her breast, sees the tips of his ears grow pointed, sees his muscles bulge and recede, bulge and recede like waves on the sand. His thrusts become jagged, less rhythmic, but also stronger, swifter. 
> 
>   
>  He makes a pained sound even as he unlatches from her tit, gasping and hissing as he clenches his teeth and fights against the change. She watches, riding him through it all, helpless against the feel of his cock stretching her, claiming her, _ruining_ her for any other man. 
> 
>   
>  (She already knows there will _never_ be another man.) 
> 
>   
>  “ _Yes_ ,” she says, again and again as he gets closer and closer to his completion, as his control slips and threatens to break into so many tiny little pieces. Stiles wants it. She _wants_ to see him loose that iron-clad control, wants to see the beast lurking just beneath his skin. 
> 
>   
>  Stiles wants more than just the man, she wants the beast too, wants to feel it inside of her just as much as she already knows she will never get over the feel of Peter inside of her. She slams down against him, impaling his full length inside of her, tightens every muscle she has down there, and _grinds_.
> 
>   
>  With a roar, Peter loses every ounce of his control. His entire body lengthens and thickens, swelling with muscle and thick, course hair that feels like divine torture against her too-sensitive skin. His cock swells too, growing longer and thicker within her, until she’s not even sure if she can take it. His cock is firmly pressing against her cervix by the time it stops growing, a shiver of pleasure-pain fissuring up her spine with every twitch, and then the fun really begins.
> 
>   
>  Peter-the-man, even while fucking her, had been gently respectful of the differences in strength and in skill, ensuring that she received nothing but pleasure. Peter-the-alpha-beast gives no fucks that she is still human. He grabs her waist and then proceeds to truly _fuck_ her, all animalistic jabs of his hips, fast and furious, with no thought to making it in any way good for her.
> 
> She is just the warm, wet hole he is thrusting into, and she is forced to simply take it.
> 
>   
>  And she _does_. 
> 
>   
>  Stiles takes _everything_. Begging and pleading and whimpering and moaning for more, hands fluttering about Peter’s alpha form, trying to find a secure grip, but being fucked too well to get her brain to cooperate on actually achieving said grip. Her orgasm runs through her like a tsunami, swift and powerful and unrelenting, and it never _stops_.
> 
>   
>  She rolls into another orgasm before the first even stops, and over and over and over again, his cock so large, forcing her to stretch so much that her g-spot is consistently being rubbed against, and every hit to her cervix is like a mini-explosion along her nerves, a super-nova that goes off inside her head with every shudder of her body. She can’t think, can’t speak, can only wail her pleasure to the roof of her jeep, can only take everything the alpha is giving her.
> 
>   
>  She must have blacked out at some point, because she doesn’t remember seeing him cum. She doesn’t remember him going soft within her, and she doesn’t remember being laid down on her tiny back-seat and covered with his leather coat. 
> 
>   
>  But when she comes to, she is in her back seat, bundled up like something precious in Peter Hale’s leather coat, a throbbing bite-mark on her wrist, and she is alone.
> 
>   
>  She peeks through her jeep window, but the nurse’s car isn’t there.
> 
>   
>  Stiles isn’t sure what it says of her when she doesn’t feel hurt or used or even regretful as she discovers she’s been essentially fucked and abandoned, left naked and alone in a parking garage in the bad part of town. She lays back down and stretches as much as she can in the cramped back seat of her jeep beneath the leather coat, feeling the beginning twinges of deep bruising forming in her cunt, and can only smile like a loon.


End file.
